The Fourth Horseman
by The She Devil
Summary: As a deadly virus spreads through the human population, Nick fights to survive and keep those he loves safe. N/G, Sara friendship, Grissom makes an appearance (so GSR, I guess, briefly).
1. Sometime in the Year 2016

TITLE: The Fourth Horseman

AUTHOR: The She Devil

EMAIL: thranowski at gmail

CATEGORY: Drama

RATING: M for language, violence, sexuality.

SPOILERS: None. Unless everyone dies in season 15.

ARCHIVE: Please ask first.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything, including all the periodicals mentioned throughout (not even the ones I made up).

SUMMARY: As a deadly virus spreads through the human population, Nick fights to survive and keep those he loves safe. N/G slash, Sara friendship, Grissom makes an appearance (so GSR, I guess, briefly).

NOTES: As usual, this started out as a short story and turned into a monster. It's a slow burn, but hopefully you like it. It's three parts, separated into small parts, because that's how it wrote itself. I don't know how many chapters it is because it's all broken up into tiny parts and I don't feel like counting. Anyway, enjoy my latest efforts at apocalypse fanfiction.

WARNINGS: I usually don't put warnings, because it ruins everything, but there is non-con (not graphic). Oh, and multiple character deaths. It's the apocalypse, people.

* * *

**ONE**

* * *

_Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning._

_- Winston Churchill_

* * *

Sometime in the year 2016…

* * *

I stopped keeping track of the days a long time ago; now the only semblance I have of time is when the seasons change. After a while, it really didn't seem that important to know what day it was, or how much time had passed. Not when I didn't have a purpose anymore. No job, no home, no family, no…you.

I'm pretty sure it's been two winters since they took you. Long after the world had gone to shit, right when mine did. Because as long as we had each other, there was nothing we couldn't do together. I tried to save you. I swear I did. I hope if you remember anything about me, it's that. Not the fights, or the way that I never really let you in, or that I never went to any of those bars with you and your friends and how I pretended not to notice the disappointment in your eyes when I said I had to stay home and catch up on paperwork.

I would give anything to go back and spend that time with you instead.

Chances are that you're dead, along with 99% of the rest of the population. And when I grip my service pistol with white knuckles in the middle of the night, pressing the cool metal into the soft skin beneath my chin, my finger on the trigger, the fact that I'm not sure is the only thing that stops me.

Well, that, and the baby. I can't just leave her like that.

I just hope that if you're out there somewhere, you aren't suffering. I've seen now what men will do in times of desperation; what men will do when there is no one there to stop them, to stand up to them. When there are no more morals, no more rules.

When I think about what they could be doing to someone like you, I almost hope you're dead.

* * *

To be continued...


	2. May 5, 2013

New England Journal of Medicine, May 5, 2013: _"A new outbreak of avian flu started on April 18, 2013, in a backyard flock of 526 birds at Kandal in the region of Kampot, which borders Viet Nam. Around 300 birds died and the rest have been destroyed."_

* * *

I stood in the doorway of the locker room, watching you just for a moment, because the only time I got to see you anymore – _really_ see you – were the times you didn't know I was looking. Your eyes were closed as you sat on the bench in front of your open locker, one sneaker on, the other untied in your hand. You looked tired lately, and it had taken every ounce of self-control I had not to ask you if you were okay every time I saw you. I didn't have the right to anymore. You made sure of that.

"Hey, G," I finally said, stepping into the room. I watched your form stiffen at the sound of my voice before you quickly recovered, making haste in pulling on your other shoe. Because that's how it was now between us. That's how it always was at first when you left, although this time you'd promised me it was for good as you threw the house keys at my chest and slammed the door behind you.

"Hey," you responded, and your eyes shifted towards me almost imperceptibly before refocusing on your locker.

I fumbled with the ceramic in my hands. "I, uh…I found this. When I was cleaning out the cabinets. Didn't know if you wanted it."

I almost didn't catch the knowing expression on your face that had just a hint of amusement to it. I knew you knew when I got anxious or upset, I had to do something to keep my hands busy. There had been plenty of times you'd go to bed angry and wake up to a pristine bathroom or sparkling kitchen. Sometimes, if you were still angry when you woke up, you'd leave a coffee ring stain on the kitchen counter on purpose, or breadcrumbs from a sandwich. Once you met my eyes as you pointedly knocked over an open can of soda, spilling sticky liquid everywhere, and we both glared at each other, jaws clenched, breathing hard, until we simultaneously burst into laughter at our own ridiculousness.

I wondered if you were thinking about the same thing I was when you almost cautiously turned your head to look. And for the first time in days, your eyes met mine, lighting up as the corners of your mouth quirked up, and for a moment I could almost believe that I hadn't come home to a house devoid of all of your things a few weeks ago.

"Thanks," you said, taking the coffee mug out of my hands. You brushed your thumb over the words on the front of it – _I snatch kisses and vise versa – _laughing quietly and shaking your head with amusement. My mother gave it to you years ago. She thought the phrase was sweet and some kind of inside gay joke, which it was, except it was a lesbian joke. After years of tension at the idea of her son dating a man, she'd only been attempting to gift you with a peace offering one Christmas. You'd thought it was equally touching and hilarious, laughing for days, but I'd catch you staring at it with a sort of awe when you weren't looking.

Quickly, you cleared your throat and shifted your features back into the neutral expression you so carefully wore these days, slipping the coffee mug onto the shelf of your locker, and I felt my heart break just a little more.

"Greg," I started, my voice strained, but you only shook your head. You never listened to me anyway; you only came back when you were ready, and I never chased you in fear of pushing you further away. We'd been through this so many times throughout our years together. Friends then lovers then boyfriends then nothing. Inevitably, we'd shift back to lovers, sometimes back to boyfriends, then back to nothing when you got restless.

I knew I wasn't the easiest person to live with. I was hot-headed and tended to lead with my emotions, speaking and acting before thinking. Mostly acting, speaking was never really my thing, which I guess was also part of the problem. I knew I could be emotionally unavailable, retreat within myself and close myself off from you when all you really wanted to do was be there for me like loved ones are supposed to. And the job always came first. Always.

Sure, I had character flaws, but so did you. Like the fact that you would leave me at an instant's notice when a pretty girl came around and paid attention to you, like that burlesque dancer or Ecklie's daughter. It was something you never understood, how you could hurt me like that and I would still open the door to my home when you came knocking at two in the morning, sometimes scowling, sometimes drunk, sometimes on the verge of tears.

I didn't really understand it either. Maybe I was settling, because it was easier to wait for you to come back than to find someone new and start all over again. To have to explain all of my bullshit to a stranger and expect them to understand. So I'd wait for you this time too, just like I always did.

I don't know what kind of man that made me.

* * *

To be continued...


	3. August 28, 2013

Las Vegas Times, August 28, 2013:_ "A flu strain similar to the H3N2 or more commonly known as the avian flu is currently sweeping over China. The pre-winter flu virus has prompted health authorities to encourage the nation of China to have their flu shots early…"_

* * *

I watched you leaning over a conference table, evidence sprawled all over the workspace. Your shoulders were hunched, head hung, eyes closed – the perfect picture of weariness. We'd been so busy lately at the lab, and while it wasn't unusual for us to take on multiple cases at one time, we were all being pushed to our limits by the sheer volume of crimes.

The crime rate had been rising exponentially over the past few months. Not just here, but all over the United States. Quite possibly the world, but I didn't really watch the news enough to know for sure; I got enough living it firsthand, I didn't need to watch it on television when I got home.

Even so, I could feel an electricity in the air, a restlessness in the city that hadn't been there before. I could see it in the faces of the victims, the suspects, the passersby on the street. A dark expectancy in their expressions, fearful anticipation in their eyes. They were waiting for something. I didn't know what, but I could see it in my own reflection when I looked in the mirror.

In your face too, although I hated to see it there more than anything. Your brown eyes used to be so bright, so alive, lit with mischief and curiosity and passion. And as you looked at me right then, as you caught me staring, I could see an emptiness that didn't used to be there. A darkness so deep it threatened to swallow me into the chasm.

Your eyebrows rose expectantly, daring me to ask you how you were. I know you hated it when I hovered. You always said I was too protective, that I tried to shelter you. That I treated you like an inexperienced kid, that I tried to shield you like a helpless maiden. You said you didn't need to be rescued, that you only needed my respect. I was only trying to stall the inevitable. To stop that hollowness in your eyes. Could you really blame me?

I cleared my throat. "Do you need a hand?"

You smiled dubiously. "How many cases do you have right now, Nick?"

"About a dozen."

"Maybe you should worry about those before you start worrying about mine," you responded, your quick wit stinging me just like it always did – just like it was meant to. I wondered if it was really that easy for you to wound me, or if perhaps you did it to keep me away from you. Maybe if you erected those walls around yourself, if you maintained the notion that you hated me, maybe you could keep _yourself_ away from _me_.

Regardless, this was the longest you'd been able to stay away. I had waited every night for you to knock on my door, for you to be waiting for me at my truck after shift, for you to call and ask me to pick you up from some random bar with an obvious slur in your voice, but you never did any of those things. Every day that went by, I was beginning to believe that perhaps you really did mean it this time. I began to wonder if I missed you, or just the idea of you. But when I would wake up in the evenings reaching beside me, when all I found was the cold and empty mattress, I knew it was you I was looking for.

* * *

To be continued...


	4. November 15, 2013

Clark County News, November 15, 2013: _"Last year, the flu season was a late one – it didn't take hold until spring – but this year, it came early and it is a vicious virus: the H3N2 strand, or avian flu, that caused a pandemic in Hong Kong in 1968."_

* * *

"I haven't seen the inside of my apartment in a week," Sara was saying as she pulled a clean set of clothes out of her locker. "I've been literally sleeping in the on call room."

"Yeah, I haven't been home in three days," I said, pulling on coveralls as I prepared to head out to two dead bodies found in a dumpster. "I only went home to say hello to my dog and then I came right back. My poor neighbor has been stuck walking and feeding him for almost a month. Luckily she doesn't have a life."

"You mean like us?" Sara shot back with a rueful smile.

"I hadn't even finished logging the evidence from my last case before I got this one," I stated, shaking my head with disgust. "It's just sitting in a box in lockup, along with evidence from the last three scenes I've worked that I haven't logged either."

"This is getting utterly ridiculous," she spat, either too irritated or too tired to care that she was undressing right in front of me, maybe both. Her bra and underwear were black, a stark contrast to her pale skin. "Half of the staff have been out sick for the better part of a week. When are we going to get some help around here?"

"Jeeze, give a guy some warning when you're doing that!" you crowed from the doorway, holding a file folder in front of your eyes with a dramatic flourish.

"Nothing you haven't seen before," Sara muttered, rolling her eyes, but there was an unmistakable blush in her cheeks. "This _is_ a locker room, you know. It's not my fault it's co-ed. What do you want, anyway?"

"I just came from the morgue. Doc Robbins sent for you," you responded, holding out the case file that had been shielding your eyes. "Your D.B.s in Henderson died from complications from the flu."

"Both the husband _and_ the wife?" Sara asked dubiously as she snatched the file out of your hands, her button down shirt still hanging open as she read the file. "They were found in bed together. This can't be right. They were in their forties."

She fled from the room, frowning as she continued to peruse the results.

"Sara!" you called. She turned back with obvious irritation. "Your shirt."

She swore quietly as she quickly buttoned up, continuing on her brisk walk as she did so. You turned back to me, unable to hold back a bark of laughter, and it was probably the first time I'd heard you laugh in months. I grinned back at you, stepping closer as I made my way to leave the room. I clapped a hand to your shoulder playfully; I could feel the warmth of your body through your clothes, the same warmth I'd been missing since you left me. Our eyes met, your smile fading, and for a moment I almost swore I saw the anguish in your eyes, the flash of pain, the yearning.

I opened my mouth, the words dangerously balancing on the tip of my tongue, ready to tumble unceremoniously in what surely would've been a mess of sentiments and regrets. But for the first time in a long time, I thought you might listen.

"Excuse me, guys," Morgan interjected, quickly sliding past us. "I overslept, I'm so sorry I'm late. I only went home to catch a quick nap."

I dared to interpret the look in your eyes as disappointment.

"It's fine," I said, nodding, but I wasn't sure if I was talking to Morgan or you. I squeezed your shoulder comfortingly before releasing my hold. "I'll see you guys later."

I heard Morgan loudly blow her nose as I left the locker room.

* * *

To be continued...


	5. December 3, 2013

Las Vegas Informer, December 3, 2013: _"Today the World Health Organization declared the strain of avian-origin H3N2 virus a pandemic. With a shortage of vaccines, officials are warning to take precautionary measures such as not touching your eyes, nose or mouth; frequent hand washing (with soap and water, or with alcohol-based hand rubs); covering coughs and sneezes; avoiding close contact with sick people; and staying home yourself if you are sick."_

* * *

I was knee deep in boxes that had been haphazardly stacked inside of a storage closet. We had been working nonstop for months, and with bodies piling up outside and the staff dwindling in the lab, there were just too many cases and not enough time. The evidence lockup storage had been filled to maximum capacity weeks ago, with evidence coming in faster than the crime lab could handle. The result was boxes and boxes of bagged and tagged evidence that wasn't even logged into the system, stuffed into any available space. There wasn't even a lock on the door of the room I was currently standing in. I wasn't even sure any of this evidence would hold up in court with the chain of custody compromised so carelessly.

But with the current state of affairs, I wasn't even sure it really mattered anymore.

I stiffened as I caught a familiar scent. Despite the fact that you stopped dying your hair a long time ago, stopped cutting it into those ridiculous, supposedly trendy styles, you still insisted on using that candy-scented hair product that cost way too much. While I had always teased you about how only you and teenagers must've used it, gave you such a hard time about spending your money so frivolously, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, allowing the scent to invade my nostrils and surround me like a warm, comforting blanket.

When I opened them again, there was a half of a sandwich that looked like it had been hastily rewrapped in cellophane in front of me. My gaze traveled up your arm, to your face, your complexion pale and the dark circles under your eyes accentuated in the harsh blue florescent lighting of the room. Your eyes looked dead. I could almost imagine pulling you out of one of the freezers in Doc Robbins' morgue.

"You need to eat something," you said quietly.

"I'm fine," I tossed dismissively, waving away your concern. My stomach growled embarrassingly loud at the sight of food, betraying me. The corner of your mouth quirked in a smile, your eyes sparkling for the most fleeting of moments, and I felt a blush creep into my cheeks. "When was the last time _you_ ate something?"

"Where do you think the other half of that sandwich went?" you retorted, holding out the sandwich to me once more. "Take it. I tried to bring you an apple."

"Tried?" I asked, around a mouthful of turkey and cheese. You must've bought it from the vending machine or a gas station, because it tasted like shit, but I was grateful to have anything in my stomach. "What happened to it?"

"I ate it."

I grinned into my chest, glancing up at you to catch your mischievous and almost challenging expression, and I don't think I could've ever wanted to kiss you more than I did right then. I leaned closer to you before remembering I wasn't supposed to be doing that anymore. Quickly, I swayed back, clumsily stumbling against the boxes stacked around us. Your warm, strong hands grabbed my forearm and bicep to steady me, a gleam in your eye that always told me you saw right through me, that you knew everything.

I tried to scowl at you, fighting not to smile as I opened my mouth to tell you exactly where to go.

"Hey, guys." We both turned to see Finn leaning in the doorway; I was sure it was the only thing holding her up. Her nose was red in contrast to the pallor of her face, her posture weary. She pulled a balled up tissue out of one of her shirtsleeves, wiping her raw nose before continuing to speak. "Greg, can you cover the chem lab for a little while?"

"Let me guess," you muttered. "Hodges called in sick?"

"Please?" she implored, her voice perilously close to a whine.

"Fine," you conceded, sighing heavily. "It's not like I don't have a hundred cases going right now or anything."

"Thank you," Finn said, before sneezing five times in rapid succession

"You know, it doesn't sound like you should really be here either," I observed.

"What can I do?" she asked, shrugging helplessly. "Morgan's still out sick, Hodges didn't come in today, Henry's about to keel over in Tox. I'm not sure how much longer Russell's going to make it, he's pretending he's not sick but I know he is…I can't just leave you and Sara to do field work while Greg's stuck in the lab."

She coughed into her elbow, waving dismissively as I opened my mouth to make a comment. As she left the doorway, I sighed instead and turned to face you. You were frowning pensively, brow knotted. I had to fight the urge to reach out and smooth away all the lines on your face.

"I guess pretty soon it'll be just me, you, and Sara," you murmured. "I'll be stuck in the lab, of course, while you guys get all the glory."

"Just like old times." I grinned, satisfied when you returned it, although you were rolling your eyes. "Don't worry. We'll try not to go too hard on you."

You would never make it back out into the field.

* * *

To be continued...


	6. December 20, 2014

USA Today, December 20, 2014: _"With the death toll rising, many families will be mourning the loss of loved ones this holiday season…"_

* * *

We were sitting in the break room sharing takeout, the first break we'd taken to eat in nearly twelve hours. Sara was picking the pork out of her lo mein, wrinkling her nose as she reminded us for the hundredth time that she was a vegetarian. I think you only screwed up her order because you liked to irritate her, and a part of you still vied for her attention after all these years.

I had never been sure what Sara thought about our relationship. I'd never offered up any information, and she'd never asked; it was just something we didn't talk about. I know that she was your closest friend, and that you confided in her. That when we got into a fight, you'd inevitably end up at her apartment. I'd picked you up from her place countless times, completely shitfaced and sometimes nearly unconscious, after Sara had called that you were ready to come home. And while I knew that her loyalties would always lie with you, I appreciated that whenever we did get into an argument, when we were together or when we were apart – as we were now – she never treated me differently.

"I bet those pigs didn't even suffer," you presently assured her.

"You're joking, right?" Sara asked, regarding you dubiously as she broke an eggroll in half and inspected the inside of it for traces of fish or mammals. "They electrocute them first to render them incapacitated, and then they slit their throats until they bleed to death. That doesn't sound like suffering to you?"

"When I was growing up, we used a captive bolt pistol," I stated casually, just to see Sara's reaction. "Looks kind of like a gun. It's a stunner that uses air pressure to penetrate the skull of the animal with a pointed bolt. Pops right in and out. Destroys brain matter but leaves the brain stem intact, so the heart continues to beat during the bleed. Killed my first pig when I was four. It was a piglet, actually. Maybe about four months old."

I could see you struggling not to laugh out of the corner of my eye as Sara blanched visibly. You took the discarded pieces of pork from the pile she had created on a napkin and held one up with your chopsticks.

"I wonder how old this one was," you said, and then popped it into your mouth.

"You're not right," Sara admonished. One slender finger pointed back and forth between the two of us. "Both of you…are not right."

Sara sat up suddenly with a troubled expression, her eyes on the doorway behind us. We turned to see Finn standing there, one hand on her mouth, the other clutching the doorframe with white knuckles. She removed the hand from her face, her mouth open to speak, but she seemed unable to find the words.

"What?" I asked anxiously, my heart pounding in my ears. "What is it, Finn?"

"Morgan," she said, so quietly I almost couldn't hear her. "Morgan isn't coming back to work. She…she died this morning at Desert Palms."

"What happened?" you demanded forcefully, standing as if to break into action, as if there was something you could do, could figure out, could find a solution for.

"The flu," Finn responded, shaking her head. "She died from the flu. They tried everything, but she didn't make it. She didn't…"

"This can't be," Sara breathed, her lips in a tight line. She almost looked angry, perhaps disgusted; the same expression she'd worn for weeks after you'd been beaten and left for dead in an alley. "She was so healthy. She was so young. She was…Jesus, she was just a kid."

"Oh, my God," you exclaimed quietly. You returned to your chair heavily, sharing a glance with me and Sara.

A deep and wet cough erupted from the doorway, and we all returned our gaze to Finn. She had been sick for weeks, deteriorating each day, struggling to hold out just a little longer so she could stay and help out the team. We could see it on her face, the same realization that I'm sure we were all thinking.

Hundreds of thousands of people had already died. The number was climbing each day. And now a healthy, young woman was dead from a virus that had wiped out up to one million people over forty years ago. If it could happen to Morgan, it could happen to Finn. It could happen to Hodges, to Henry, to Russell, to all the other crime lab and police department employees that were still out sick.

I think that was about the time we all knew just how dire our situation was rapidly becoming.

* * *

To be continued...


	7. February 16, 2014

New York Times, February 16, 2014: _"In an attempt to contain the H3N2 virus, today the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in conjunction with the United States Government issued a federal order of quarantine to be carried out by any medical providers upon patients that test positive for the H3N2 virus or are suspected of having the H3N2 virus. Entire hospitals have been dedicated to quarantining patients, with locations such as convention centers and public schools shutting down to accommodate the overflow of patients."_

* * *

When the government issued a mandatory quarantine order for anyone testing positive or suspected of having the H3N2 virus, that's when the military showed up. There seemed to be a soldier posted at every doorway, continuously patrolling the halls, inspecting storage closets and just generally meandering around getting in everybody's fucking way. While they stood casually, smiled cordially, spoke politely, the M16 service rifles slung over their shoulders and held in the standard low ready position told a different story.

I observed the soldiers carefully out of the corner of my eye, paying close attention to the ones who gripped their weapons a little too tightly, the ones who seemed a little too eager, the ones whose gazes fell most often upon those they considered weak. As each day passed, I found my fingers brushing against my sidearm more and more, just to remind myself that at least I had some kind of defense should anyone decide to get trigger happy. I wondered if there would come a day that I wouldn't be allowed to have it anymore.

I traversed the halls of the crime lab, pushing past a group of military men laughing over their coffees in the hallway after they ignored me when I'd excused myself. I rolled my eyes, gripping the evidence from my latest scene – a dead couple found inside of their home, no evidence of trauma. From the copious amounts of over the counter cold medicines and tissue boxes, I could only assume they had died from the flu, just like everyone else these days.

I never thought the day would come that I'd actually yearn to be called out to a homicide or a suspicious death.

I found you inside of the lab that used to belong to you – that belonged to you again, for the past few months. The same lab that had exploded and thrown you through a glass window, that had left the constellation of scars across your back and shoulders. The first time I had seen them, you'd already forgotten they were there. They felt different than any part of you, and sometimes, if I closed my eyes, I could still feel them. Pink and raised under my fingertips, against my lips. I could still remember the shiver that would run down your spine if I touched them just so.

Lightly, I skimmed my hand across your back as I approached you. You looked up from the test you were working on, sighing heavily when you caught sight of the bags in my hands.

"Are they dead or alive?" you asked bluntly.

"Dead," I responded, frowning.

"Okay. Does it look like the flu?"

"Yeah."

"Okay," you repeated, nodding, as if coming to a decision. "Okay. Low priority. Put it in the low priority pile."

I dropped the evidence into a cardboard box labeled with today's date and priority level. It was already nearly filled, and the day had only started a few hours ago. There were several similar boxes all around the room with different labels, overflowing with bags and bags of samples to process.

"Here's some more swabs from the hospital," a uniformed soldier called from the doorway, haphazardly dropping a box on the floor. He kicked it underneath the counter beside three other matching biohazard boxes before leaving just as quickly as he'd arrived.

"Fuck," you breathed, your expression pained as you rubbed your forehead with your forearm, mindful of your gloved hands. I had never seen you this way in all of my years at the crime lab, looking so overwhelmed and defeated. Not even when you were pulling double-time in the lab and training out in the field while taking classes at UNLV to become a CSI.

I indicated the box the soldier had just dropped off. "What is that?"

"Overflow from Desert Palms," you responded. "Their lab can't handle all the flu testing so they're kicking back specimens to us. It's not rapid testing either, they want viral cultures."

I gaped at him. "How do they expect you to get through all of this and do the hospital's job on top of that?"

"I don't know," you said, and shrugged. "It's not like it matters anyway."

"What do you mean?" I asked, my voice forceful in a flash of anger. "Of course it matters. They _all_ matter, Greg."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Are you fucking blind? Do you not see how backlogged I am? Months, Nick. _Months_. These samples?" You pointed to a box before kicking it violently across the room, crashing it into another stack of boxes that seemed precariously close to toppling over. "These are from December. December! And I'm the only one running them – I don't even think there's a day shift tech anymore! Not that any of these samples are even still viable, but that doesn't matter, either. You know why?"

Suddenly, you lost all steam, leaning heavily against the counter, gripping the edges in a way that made me believe it was the only thing stopping you from hitting the floor. I fought the urge to go to you, to support you, comfort you; you were so tightly wound, your body trembling with tension, I was afraid the slightest touch would cause you to fly apart at the seams.

"Because they're all dead," you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Every name I pull out of there and run through the database comes back. They're dead, Nick. Every single fucking one of them."

"So is Finn," Sara said quietly from the doorway. Her eyes were red, jaw clenched in an effort to control the quivering in her lip. "I went to her apartment. I hadn't heard from her in weeks. I went to check on her, to see how she was feeling. I had to break in through a window."

She raised her right hand, covered in scratches that extended down her arm. Quickly, I reached for her, pulling her into the lab and guiding her to a stool. She sat without protest, almost dazed, and I kept one hand at her elbow, the other across her shoulders to support her. You clumsily climbed over some boxes to pull a first aid kit out of one of the cabinets, upending one of the boxes and scattering bags of samples all over the floor in your haste. You didn't even give the mess a second glance as you swiftly went to work examining Sara's wounds.

"She's gone, guys," she continued, shaking her head. "I was too late. She's gone."

"It's not your fault, Sara," I stated, only then realizing she was clutching an evidence bag. "What is that?"

"Swab," she replied simply, and I nearly scoffed. Only Sara would consider the evidence at a time like that. "I wanted to be sure…that's what killed her."

"Has anyone heard from Hodges?" you asked suddenly. I could see the frown etched deeply on your face, your brow knotted in concentration as you dabbed at Sara's scrapes with a cotton ball doused in antiseptic. You looked up and met my eyes. I shook my head. Sara glanced up, coming out of her trance with a sharp exhalation.

"I haven't heard from Henry either," you continued, tossing bloodied cotton into the biohazard bin.

"Russell's been out too," I said quietly, a sinking feeling in my gut, twisting at my insides and I almost felt as if I might throw up. "David. Brass."

"God," Sara breathed. "What's happening to us?"

Shouting from the hallway pulled all of our attention to the glass windows of the lab. We watched with wide eyes as a group of soldiers escorted several employees down the hall, physically holding them in a way that indicated there was no negotiating in the matter.

"Please!" Mandy from fingerprinting pleaded, and I absently wondered if she had lost her glasses in the commotion and whether or not she would need them. She was crying, and I could see the grip on her arm was tight, even from across the hall. My body vibrated with the urge to move, to help her, but the M16s clutched tightly in the solders' hands kept me rooted to the spot. "Please, I don't need to go to quarantine! It's just allergies, I get them every year!"

"Can't we at least run the testing first?" an officer I vaguely recognized from the day shift asked, his expression full of fear. "We have a lab right there! They can run the testing! It only takes a few minutes!"

"This is unconstitutional!" exclaimed an ambulance chaser I'd often seen in the LVPD waiting room, a balding older man that I didn't know the name of. "I'm a lawyer, I know my rights! You can't do this!"

"At least let me call my wife," the officer continued, but the soldiers' faces remained impassive as they ignored the pleadings from their captives. "Just let me call my wife so she knows where I'll be!"

"I can give you a sample right now!" Mandy cried, before turning to look at us through the lab windows. I felt Sara's form stiffen in my arms, my own posture straightening with surprise at the attention. "I can give you a sample! Please, take a sample. Don't let them take me without a sample! Nick, Greg, don't let them take me! Sara, please!"

We'd all heard stories about the quarantine zones. Anyone that had ever entered one had never returned. They'd either died or had gone missing, unaccounted for somewhere in the system. Only God knew what had happened to them. I gripped Sara's arm tighter, my other hand that had been resting across her shoulders reaching out across her back to the other side of her, where you stood. I touched your arm, grabbing your attention. You both turned to look at me.

I'm sure the terror on your faces was reflected on my own.

"We stick together now, okay?" I said, my voice hoarse. I gritted my teeth, biting back the stinging in my eyes. You and Sara both nodded numbly. "Just the three of us. We stick together."

We never saw Mandy again.

* * *

To be continued...


	8. April 19, 2014

Los Angeles Times, April 19, 2014: _"A series of demonstrations across several cities in the United States quickly escalated into riots yesterday, resulting in dozens of deaths and injuring hundreds. The demonstrations began as protests against the mandatory quarantine implemented by the CDC and the U.S. Government back in February. Thousands have died in quarantine, with countless more missing and unable to be located."_

* * *

I was sure the only employees left at the crime lab were you, Sara, and I. And Ecklie, who had not taken Morgan's death well. It was to be expected, when your only daughter who had to have barely been thirty years old – young, healthy, beautiful, so full of energy – was dead from a virus that should've only caused her to miss a few days of work, not miss the rest of her life.

She had been one of the first to get the H3N2 vaccine, but the virus had mutated, rendering all of those flu vaccines useless. It had taken millions of lives in the United States alone, wiped out entire nations across the globe. It had become the most deadly plague since the Spanish flu pandemic of 1918, and it didn't appear to be slowing down.

We had become slaves to the virus. We hardly even investigated crimes anymore, just collected nasal swabs and ran tests for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in between tracking supposed terrorists – civilians who were making the military uncomfortable with their anti-government/anti-military sentiments.

We were so backed up, all the samples we collected were piling up in every available space, unprocessed and disregarded. It didn't even seem worth it anymore, but what we did and didn't do wasn't up to us. It was all enforced by the military that was ever-present in the halls of the lab and police department. A major had taken up residence in the Sheriff's office, captains and lieutenants staking claim in Russell's old office, the same office I still thought of as Grissom's.

Sometimes I wondered where he was; if he'd died from the flu like everyone else, had been taken to quarantine. Maybe he was on a small island in the jungle somewhere; knowing him, it was just as likely a scenario. And then one day he showed up, peeking his head around the corner of the locker room and rapping timidly on the door frame.

"Gris!" I exclaimed, hastily crossing the room and engulfing him in an embarrassing display of affection, but it was so good to see him alive and well, I couldn't help myself. I inhaled the scent of him, reveling in the solidness of his body against mine. "What are you doing here?"

"Sara said you guys could use a hand," he stated, cocking one eyebrow as he took a step back, but I could see he was fighting not to smile.

"We sure could," I said, ushering him into the hallway to find her. "Have you seen Greg yet? He got sent back to the lab after all the techs…well, you know."

_Died_. I couldn't seem to bring myself to utter the word, but he nodded in understanding.

"No, I haven't seen him yet," he responded. "But I'm glad to know he's still here, even if he is stuck in the lab."

"You're telling me," I agreed, still hardly able to believe Gil Grissom was walking down the hall with me. I clapped him on the shoulder cordially, a part of me subconsciously needing to feel him to know that he was real. I caught sight of you through the glass walls of your lab, raising my hand and ready to call out to you in my excitement when the man standing beside you gave me pause.

He was one of the lieutenants, an older guy, classically handsome and well built. O'Grady, I think his last name was, although I wasn't sure of his first. He was standing close to you – too close, his fingertips trailing down the sleeve of your lab coat. You were stiff, your jaw clenched, expression tight as your eyes focused on the workspace in front of you. He was talking into your ear, and I could see that you were leaning away from him in an effort to create space between the two of you, but that didn't stop him from leaning closer. He was gripping his service rifle casually, but I was sure it wasn't lost on you that he was holding it instead of allowing it to hang from the sling on his shoulders like it should've if he was just having a friendly conversation.

"Hey, Gris, why don't you find Sara, and I'll grab Greg and catch up," I said, my gaze never leaving you. I could see Grissom in my peripheral vision carefully observing the scene before he reluctantly agreed and walked away. Quickly, I pushed my way into your lab, loudly bursting through the door and smiling broadly. "Hey, G, got those results for me yet?"

I could see the relief in your eyes, your breath releasing from your lungs in a burst. "Yes. I have them right over here, just…I'm sorry, can you excuse us?"

"Of course," Lt. O'Grady said, nodding tersely before turning to leave the room. He cast one last look at you before exiting.

"What was that about?" I asked quietly, standing beside you and looking pointedly at your computer monitor, but I was watching O'Grady watch you out of the corner of my eye.

"He's got a thing for good looking lab techs," you said, smiling halfheartedly as you typed absently on the keyboard. You met my gaze, and I could see how uncomfortable you really were despite the fact that you were trying to brush it off. "It's fine. He's just…a little overenthusiastic." You smiled again, but it still didn't reach your eyes. "What can I say? I'm a great catch."

"I know," I said without hesitation, and this time when you smiled – in a bashful way that was much more charming than it had any right to be – your eyes lit up. I wondered if I tried to kiss you now, if you would let me. If I invited you back into our home, if I asked you to pick up where we left off, if you would say yes. Of course, now wasn't the time or place, but it never seemed to be. Maybe it was about time I _made_ it the right time and place.

Before it was too late.

"Guys," we heard from the doorway, and saw Sara grinning for the first time in what seemed like months. Grissom was standing beside her, his hand protectively resting at the small of her back, and I couldn't help grin as well. "Did you see I called in the reinforcements?"

* * *

To be continued...


	9. May 5, 2014

TIME, May 5, 2014: _"Social unrest continues as the United States declares martial law. Mandatory curfew begins at sundown and ends at sunrise. However, officials are urging Americans to stay inside during the day if possible, as violent crime contributes to the rising death toll throughout the nation…"_

* * *

You weren't in the lab. You weren't in the break room. You weren't outside sneaking a cigarette from the pack that I knew you kept in the back of your locker in case of emergencies, Camel Lights that you shared with Sara. I had been back from a scene for at least an hour, and I still hadn't managed to run into you. I usually wouldn't have worried, but we were no longer living in usual times. I navigated the hallways quickly, my heart pounding against my ribcage as I continued to search for you.

After I couldn't find you in any of the usual places, I began searching the storage facilities and evidence lockers. I opened the door to one of the chemical closets, peeking inside and nearly leaving before I heard voices in the back of the room.

"I don't want any trouble." Your voice was barely a whisper, and although you were speaking quietly, I could still hear the wavering of fear in your tone.

"Neither do I," another voice said. I quietly stepped further inside, peeking around several shelving units when I saw you. You were backed against a corner, gripping a glass bottle in your hand so tightly I thought it might burst, your other hand flat against the wall. Lt. O'Grady was standing in front of you, trapping you, the barrel of his gun pressed lengthwise right between your legs. Your eyes were closed, expression pained as you shrank away from him, the breath coming out of your nose in quick, loud bursts. There was a splash of pink on the left side of your face, and I wondered if he'd struck you.

"What do you want from me?"

"Guy as smart as you should be able to figure that out," the lieutenant replied, his lips close to your ear, his free hand pressed against the wall beside your head. You flinched as he brought his fingertips to caress your inflamed cheek.

"Is there a problem here?" I asked, my fists clenched at my sides, vision tunneling to the man threatening what I still considered to be my property despite the fact that you hadn't been mine in over a year. The only thing stopping me from beating him into the ground was the M16 clutched tightly in his hands as he turned to face me.

"No," he said so casually, a smile brightening his features. "No problem. Sanders and I were just talking. Right, Sanders?"

You cleared your throat, eyes averted to anywhere but O'Grady or myself. "Yeah. We were just talking."

"We don't have time for chit-chat right now," I stated, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. "There's lots of work to be done out there, Greg."

"Right, sorry," you murmured, almost in a daze. "Sorry."

The lieutenant stepped away, heading towards the exit before pausing briefly to look over his shoulder at you. "We'll finish this conversation later."

"Yeah," you agreed, nodding emphatically. "Later."

The door closed behind the soldier, too loud in the quiet space of the storage closet. Your breath exploded from you, the tension releasing from your body as you nearly melted against the wall. I wondered if you could stand on your own.

"Greg," I began, reaching for you, but you cut me off quickly.

"I'm fine."

"What the fuck – ?"

"I said I'm fine!" you yelled, pushing past me and heading towards the door. "Just leave it alone, Nick. You don't need to fix everything."

The sound of the door closing again reached my ears, and I nodded as I stood alone in the storage closet, rubbing a hand against my mouth anxiously. Leave it alone? That wasn't an option. And, no, I didn't need to fix everything. I knew you hated it when I took on every cause that came my way, when I needed to validate myself by acting as the knight in shining armor, even when it was hopeless. But I knew this was something I _could_ fix. Knew it was something I had to.

* * *

I watched him the rest of the night, Lt. O'Grady. His office was the same one that Finn used to inhabit. He spent most of his time there, alone, but there was always a soldier or two right outside his door. So I waited until he was the most vulnerable, when he was in the men's room, alone, taking a piss.

He was standing at the urinal, his gun slung across his back as he held his dick in one hand, the other braced against the wall. I nodded at him in recognition before casually walking towards the stalls. As I stepped behind him, I steeled myself before turning to his back, grabbing the gun and lifting the sling, pulling back and twisting the fabric until it was taught against his neck, cutting off his air supply. He reacted quickly, grabbing at his neck in panic before remembering himself. He elbowed me in the ribs, the air escaping my lungs, but I didn't relent. I pushed him against the urinal with my entire weight, his head caroming off of the porcelain and we both fell to the floor.

I landed on top of him, pulling the gun off of him and tossing it to the side of the room. I didn't need it; I didn't want to kill him. Well, I did, but not really. I straddled his body, turning him onto his back and punching him hard in the jaw with a right hook. Again. Again. Again. There was blood on the floor, on my fist, on his face. I beat him relentlessly, until his face resembled hamburger.

By the time I stopped hitting him, he'd already stopped moving a long time ago. I stood up, crossing the room to the sinks, catching my expression in the mirror. My face was covered in blood spatter, my shirt, my hands. I cleaned myself up, taking off my shirt and throwing it in the trash before I took the bag out and tied it in a knot. Clutching the garbage bag in my hand, I took one last look at the man on the floor.

I didn't know if he was dead. I wondered if I should worry that I didn't care.

* * *

Some hours later, the sun just beginning to rise, you were smoking a cigarette on a bench located on the side of the crime lab. You were leaning forward, elbows on your thighs, your head in your hands. I sat down beside you, my thigh brushing yours, and you startled at the contact.

"Damn, you scared me," you hissed, then regarded me with distaste. "I know what you did."

"So?" I retorted, shrugging.

"_So?_ You almost killed that guy, Nick. He's in a fucking coma."

"What did you expect me to do?" I snapped. "You know what he wanted from you. He would've done whatever he could to get it."

"I don't need you to protect me," you spat back. "I can take care of myself."

"I know that," I replied, and held out my hands in a helpless gesture. "But you heard him, Greg. The conversation wasn't over. And the next time he had an M16 aimed at your crotch, you might not've been so lucky. I saw the opportunity. I took it."

I failed to mention that I'd waited for an opportunity to present itself, but that was neither here nor there.

"Whatever." You took a drag off of your cigarette, shaking your head forlornly. Sat quietly for a moment before you stuck the cigarette between your lips and turned towards me slightly to take my right hand, squinting one eye against the smoke. You ghosted gentle fingertips across my swollen and bruised knuckles, your other hand cradling my palm. "Do you need someone to look at this?"

"I'm fine." In an attempt at casual, I shrugged and tried to smile. "Time heals all wounds, right?"

"Sometimes," you replied quietly, kept one hand in mine, and for a moment we sat there in silence, holding hands as we watched the sun creep out from beneath the skyline, rising into another day sure to be filled with death and destruction and misery. I idly watched smoke plumes from some kind of fire in the distance – probably another riot – and wondered if I would be called to that scene, if anyone would even bother to dispatch us.

"Are you okay?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"No," you responded immediately, and when the door to the lab opened, you gave my fingers a gentle squeeze before releasing my hand. "Are you?"

"No," I said honestly. I watched as Sara joined us, sitting down on the opposite side of you. You extended your cigarette to her; she grasped your wrist, pulling your fingers towards her mouth and taking a long drag off of it before releasing her hold of you and exhaling with what sounded like relief. I asked, "You okay, Sara?"

"No," she said simply.

And we sat there like three wise monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

If only.

* * *

To be continued...


	10. July 4, 2014

USA Today, July 4, 2014: _"USA Today would like to wish the nation a happy Independence Day, and to remind all Americans to cooperate fully with the military to ensure many more safe and happy holidays to come…"_

* * *

_"Do you ever think about leaving?"_

_"Leaving Vegas?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"And going where?"_

_"Anywhere," you said. "Just getting in your car and driving. Until you hit the ocean, or the mountains. Until you run out of gas. Until you get somewhere like here, just stay here forever."_

_My gaze traveled past your prone form and focused on the sun setting over the lake outside the window of our cabin, the same cabin we'd been renting on Wolf Lake in Tennessee for years. The sunlight cast a glow of oranges and yellows and reds across your back, lighting up your bare skin with pseudo fire. I shivered at the illusion, brushing my fingers across the scars juxtaposed to smooth skin._

_"How would you make money?" I asked._

_"I wouldn't need money," you replied resolutely._

_"Need money for food."_

_"I'd fish in the lake. Or hunt deer or something."_

_I regarded you dubiously. "You don't know how to hunt. And have you even been fishing before?"_

_"You can teach me."_

_I shook my head at your determination, grinning with amusement._

_"You'd leave your whole life behind, babe?" I asked, my hand travelling lower, to where the bed sheets met your lower back. You closed your eyes and hummed contentedly, face pressed against the pillow of our bed. "To live on a lake in the middle of the woods?"_

_You opened your eyes and met mine, the fire in them brighter than the sunset, making me catch my breath. "Wouldn't matter as long as you were there."_

I woke up with a start, swallowing hard before exhaling sharply. I was in the break room of the crime lab, leaning back against the worn leather couch. I'd only sat down to take a breather, not to catch a cat nap, and I idly wondered how long I'd been asleep. I yawned deeply, stretching my sore limbs and arching my aching back. I couldn't remember the last time I'd slept in a bed – I couldn't even remember the last time I'd been home. My elderly neighbor, Mrs. Nguyen, had offered to take my dog in several months ago; at least Sammy might've been getting some TLC, which I was in much need of.

I grabbed some bitter coffee before heading back out into the lab. Grissom had helped only marginally to put a dent into the daily work, but any type of assistance was a welcome respite. And while he was no longer in a position of authority, his sagacity and steady demeanor were helping immensely with morale. We felt like a team again, like we had a sense of direction in all of this, even if it was minimal in the grand scheme of things.

After all, the whole world was going to shit, and everyone knew it.

I needed to restock my kit with – not surprisingly – gloves and swabs before heading out to my next series of scenes. I headed into the stock room, hoping they had my size gloves so I didn't have to squeeze my large hands into mediums again when I heard muffled coughing in the back of the room. Carefully, I slipped past a series of shelves, following the noise until I found you hunched in the corner of the room, hacking gracelessly into a cluster of tissues.

"No," I breathed, my stomach twisting violently, my heart pounding so hard against my ribcage I was sure it would break free. You startled at the sound of my voice, turning to face me with a look of sheer terror before relaxing at the familiar sight of me. "No, no, no, no, no…"

"Nick. It's fine," you assured me hastily, as I quickly approached you. "I'm fine."

"How long?" I asked, gripping your shoulders in my hands, squeezing tightly, as if I let go now, you'd disappear right where you stand. "How long have you been sick?"

"A few days," you replied quietly, casting your eyes to the ground, and then you sniffled. "I'm really fine."

I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "Did you test yourself?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

You only nodded.

"No," I whispered. "No, this isn't happening, this isn't happening, Greg. What if someone sees you? God, if I had been anyone else – "

"What am I supposed to do?" you cut in bitterly. "Call in sick?"

My mind was racing, my breathing coming in short bursts as I tried to formulate some kind of game plan. The military was keeping us here, watching our every move like hawks. Abled-bodied persons were a rarity these days, and they couldn't afford to lose anyone. There were no more days off, no going home without an escort in case someone thought about jumping ship. If you didn't want to work, they took you to a detention center. If you were sick, they tested you; and if you tested positive, they took you to quarantine, never to be seen again. They had developed a new rapid test for the virus that was supposedly 100% accurate. One finger-prick would decide someone's fate. It had decided yours.

"Okay," I said suddenly, releasing my hold of you to fish the keys to my SUV out of my pocket. "Give me your keys and your cell phone."

"What?" you asked, but you were already reaching into your jeans. I grabbed the keys to your car from your hand, replacing them with my own and pushing them into your chest.

"Take my keys, take my truck to your place and pack up only what you need," I told you quickly, glancing over my shoulder to make sure we were still alone. I turned the volume off on your cell phone and shoved it inside of a box beside us, burying it deep in cotton balls and lint-free wipes. "Grab anything you have that we can use. Any canned food, medical supplies, camping gear, stuff like that, do you understand me?"

"Nick, what are you – ?"

"Then I want you to go to my house," I continued, cutting you off. "Go to my house and pack up everything that I have. Wait for me there, okay? Just wait for me there, I'll cover you here, I'll get some excuse, and then I'll meet you at home, okay? You can't take your phone, they'll be able to track you, so just do exactly as I say and then wait for me, okay?"

"Nick," you began, your expression displaying your bewilderment. You looked at me as if I'd just lost my mind, and perhaps I had. You opened your mouth, and I was sure you were going to protest, to tell me I was insane, to tell me to go to hell or to stop trying to save you, to stop trying to fix everything. But you only asked, "Where are we going?"

"It doesn't matter," I declared, slipping my hands on either side of your face and pulling you close to me, looking into your eyes so full of fear and uncertainty. I hoped you could see the strength and assurance in mine. I hoped you couldn't see that I was just as scared as you were. "I will not let them take you, do you understand me? I will not let them take you away from me."

You nodded vigorously, gripping my wrists tightly. "Nick…"

"Go," I said, and it took everything I had to let go of you and push you towards the door. At the last moment I grabbed your arm, warm skin beneath my fingertips, and you turned back towards me. "Don't talk to anyone. Don't let anyone see you. Don't go to your locker. Just leave."

"Okay," you agreed quietly. You hesitated briefly. "Tell Sara…tell her I…"

"I will."

* * *

I knew I didn't have long before they would start looking for you. You were still working in the lab, your absence would be noticed fairly quickly. At least if your car was in the parking lot, perhaps they would think you were taking a break or grabbing supplies from the stockroom, searching the evidence lockers, anything except what you were really doing.

Packing up our whole lives into an SUV, racing against the clock to get the fuck out of here before they could take you away.

I grabbed an assignment from dispatch, logged in my name and quickly headed for my locker. If I left here pretending to go to a scene and instead headed straight home, how much time would pass before they realized I wasn't showing up? Thirty minutes tops, maybe another fifteen on top of that before they started looking for me. Perhaps an hour before they'd show up at my house.

I cursed under my breath, trying to remain stoic as I grabbed my kit and headed in search of Sara. She was sitting in a layout room, sharing what I was sure was a vegetarian burger with Grissom. I almost knocked, but for a moment I stood there and watched the way her eyes lit up as he spoke to her. Watched the way his hand casually brushed across her arm in familiar intimacy. My chest tightened at the thought that this would be the last time I'd ever see them.

"Guys," I began, hyperaware of the two soldiers in the corner of the room laughing loudly at an image on one of their cell phones, another few soldiers meandering around in the hallway directly behind me. Sara and Grissom paused in their conversation to look at me expectantly. "I'm heading out to a scene."

"Do you need a hand?" Sara asked, delicately wiping at the sides of her mouth with a napkin. "We were just taking a quick break, but if you need some help…"

"No, no," I assured her. I opened my mouth to speak, hesitating as I cast my eyes to the soldiers and then back to Sara and Grissom. God, everything I could have said to them, but even if those soldiers weren't there, I doubt I would ever have been able to say everything I should.

Sara raised one of her eyebrows, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Nick?"

"Sara, Greg was listening to this song the other day in the lab," I stated, even though we had not heard music in the lab for at least six months. A detail I knew she wouldn't miss. "I don't remember who it was by, do you think you might've heard it?"

"How did it go?" she asked slowly, sharing a glance with Grissom before turning back to me.

_"Every foe that ever I faced_

_The cause was there before we came_

_And every cause that ever I fought_

_I fought it full without regret or shame_

_But…but as the dark…"_

I trailed off, unable to recall the rest of the lyrics, but even if I knew the words, I didn't think I could say them. I cleared my throat, blinking away the burning in my eyes as she continued where I left off.

_"But as the dark does die,_

_As the curtain is drawn_

_And somebody's eyes must meet the dawn_

_And if I see the day_

_I'd only have to stay_

_So I bid farewell in the night and be gone._

"Bob Dylan_. _'Restless Goodbye,'" she said quietly, but I was already gone.

* * *

As soon as I got to your car, I opened the side panel of the dash and pulled the wiring to your GPS. Quickly, I drove out of the parking garage of the LVPD, throwing my cell phone to the side of the road and heading for my house, praying that you would be there waiting for me when I arrived.

I wanted to floor this overpriced pocket rocket you'd bought yourself last year for your 39th birthday, but I knew I had to be as discreet as possible. As I shifted the clutch smoothly and drove no more than five miles over the speed limit, I remembered teasing you about having a midlife crisis. You'd only scoffed at the idea, insisting that if you bought it _next_ year, when you turned forty, only then would it be considered a clichéd purchase.

Traffic was heavy coming out of downtown. The city had been mostly abandoned a long time ago, with the majority of casinos and businesses closing due to the lack of live patrons. Now it seemed the only people coming in and out of the Strip were the military and city employees, and usually getting out of the city was a breeze. Of course the one time it was imperative for me to get home as quickly as possible, I was moving at ten miles an hour.

"Come _on_," I muttered with frustration, and slammed my palm against the steering wheel. As I crept closer to the intersection, I could see smoke up ahead. I rolled down the window, sticking my head out in an attempt to get a better view of what was going on. Several patrol cars and military vehicles flew by on the opposite side of the road but traveling in the same direction I was facing.

Anxiously, I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, my heart fluttering in my chest. I glanced at the clock for the hundredth time. It'd been nearly thirty minutes since I'd sent you out of the lab. Surely, by now, someone would be looking for you. Maybe they'd already tried to call you and tracked down your cell phone in the storage closet. Maybe they were scanning the parking lot for your car and finding it missing. Maybe they were tracking your GPS and realizing it was disconnected. Maybe they were at your apartment, traveling much faster with their sirens than I could even in this sports car – at least, if I didn't want to be noticed.

I just hoped you were already at my house, waiting for me. I hoped _they_ wouldn't be at my house, looking for me and finding you. It was only a matter of time, and now traffic wasn't moving at all. I shifted my eyes to the empty lanes on the opposite side of the road beside me. Took a deep breath. Waited. Waited.

"Fuck this."

I jerked the steering wheel, tires squealing against the pavement as I shifted gears and floored it. I fishtailed minimally before regaining control of the vehicle and sped past seemingly endless miles of traffic. Kept one eye on the rearview mirror, the other on the road ahead of me. There were no cars heading in my direction; something was wrong. But I had to make it to the other side of the street to reach the fastest route to my house; if I had to turn around and take the long way home, without a doubt I would be too late.

As I rapidly approached the intersection, I could see the smoke getting thicker and darker. There were multiple cars involved in a crash, flames licking at the sky from the wreckage. One car was spray painted with the symbol of one of the anti-government "Patriot" groups that had formed since the President had declared martial law.

There had been plenty of these Patriot groups popping up all over the country, one in specific gaining traction called We the People. Anyone suspected of associating with any of these groups was labeled a terrorist and immediately taken into custody, but trials were nearly unheard of. Only those most prominent in the groups that had been arrested were punished within full view of the media in an attempt to dissuade others from joining. I wasn't sure what happened to those who were detained but never tried.

I could hear gunfire through my still open window. For one brief moment, I wished I'd closed it before the rational part of my brain reminded me that glass wasn't really much of a threat to bullets. I could see SWAT and military vehicles up ahead, positioning themselves opposite to a group of men and women who I assumed were with the We the People Patriot group. Both sides were exchanging gunfire, bullets spraying back and forth across the intersection.

Resolutely, I kept the pedal to the floor, exhaling sharply as one of the SWAT vehicles exploded. I couldn't turn back now. I had to make it across the intersection. I had to make it home. I had to make it to you. As terrified as I was, I only had to remind myself that you didn't have a snowball's chance in Hell without me, that they would take you away never to be seen again, and it was enough to keep me going.

I didn't want to think of what it meant that you'd tested positive. I didn't want to think about Finn and Hodges and Russell and Morgan and everyone else I had ever known that had gotten the virus and was now gone. I only knew I had to keep you out of quarantine, and I'd figure the rest out after that.

I sped through the intersection, swerving around a group of soldiers and nearly losing control of the car in my haste. I could hear pangs against the side of the vehicle, the back window exploded, and I ducked as best I could as glass sprayed against the back of my neck and head. There was an explosion right beside me, sending the car into a wild spin and I fought to keep hold of the steering wheel as it jerked violently in my hands.

"Shit!" I yelled, as the car finally came to a stop, but I could barely hear myself over the ringing in my ears. More gunfire, another series of explosions, and I quickly shifted gears and got out of there. I briefly glanced in the rearview mirror, watching high rise buildings and casinos and Las Vegas burn to the ground behind me.

* * *

I pulled into the driveway next to my SUV, relief flooding me at the sight of you. You quickly came out of the house to meet me, stopping short and gaping almost comically at the condition of your car before meeting my eyes through the front windshield. I could see the panic in your eyes, the fear, the confusion. You were afraid for me. Because you loved me. And, God, I loved you too.

"Jesus, Nick, are you okay?" you asked breathlessly, as I stepped out of the car. I moved to the SUV, opening the driver's side door and finding myself pleasantly satisfied to see you'd already disabled the GPS. You were still talking behind me, your voice frantic as you hovered so closely I could feel your body heat. "Nick, you're bleeding. What happened? Talk to me!"

"I'm fine," I assured you, turning and grabbing your elbow and brusquely guiding you into the house. I glanced over my shoulder briefly, then closed the door and locked it, the deadbolt resounding with a comforting thud. "What did you pack up?"

"Everything you said," you replied, following me into the kitchen. I started opening and closing cabinets; all of the food items were gone. "I got all the kitchen stuff. Clothes. Toiletries. All the camping gear."

"What about my guns?" I asked, moving into my office. You were right on my heels.

"Yeah," you stated. "And the ammo. Nick, will you just stop for a minute and let me look at you?"

"We don't have time," I admonished. "Do you have any cash?"

"Yeah, like, twenty bucks."

I knelt down in front of my safe, punched in the security code and pulled open the heavy door. Quickly, I started pulling out bricks of cash and thrusting them into your hands.

"Jesus," you breathed, your eyes wide. "What, did you rob a bank?"

"No, I got it from the evidence locker at work," I told you very seriously. I paused for a brief moment before laughing at your shocked expression. "I've been stashing it away, G."

I was sure if you hadn't been balancing thousands of dollars of cash in your hands you would have hit me. Instead, you rolled your eyes, shaking your head as you followed me to the desk. I pulled a duffle bag out of the closet, holding it open as you dumped the money inside. Once your hands were free, you grasped my wrist, pulling me close to you.

"Hey," you said quietly, reaching up with one hand to touch the side of my face. Gentle, tentative fingers trailed over what must've been a cut on the side of my eyebrow because it stung when you touched it, and when you pulled your hand away there was blood on your fingertips; they were trembling. You met my gaze, your eyes shining intensely, irises the color of expensive chocolate, the kind that melted so smoothly on the tongue.

"Greg – "

"This is why I never let you drive my car," you whispered, warm hands curled around my biceps, and I wondered if you spoke quietly so I wouldn't hear the tremor in your voice.

"I know," I murmured, my hands resting easily on your hips.

"You had it for thirty minutes, Nick."

"I'm sorry."

"You're a mess. Let's clean you up, get some fresh clothes on, and then we'll go, okay? "

I took a deep breath. "Okay. But we need to hurry. We only have enough light left to get out of the city."

* * *

After only minimally cleaning myself up, I checked the SUV to see what you'd packed. You'd gotten pretty much everything we needed, I noticed, as I dug through suitcases and duffel bags and boxes. I reached the back of the pile, something bright red catching my eye. In a small box, I found the little stuffed devil with a tee shirt reading "Hot Stuff" that you'd given me for our first Valentine's Day together. I dug further into the box, finding holiday cards we'd given each other – the romantic ones I always put so much thought into, searching the card aisle forever just to find the perfect card; the same ones that you always bought at the last minute and were always the perfect amount of sexy and funny. I found loose photographs of our team from softball games and the yearly LVPD cookout and the group photo of the nightshift when you'd finally passed your proficiency test. I found pictures of Warrick's son, of Lindsey, of my family during a summer reunion, of your parents and us.

At the very bottom, I found a framed photograph of you and me, my favorite photograph of us. It was from our first date, at a restaurant on the Strip taken by one of those girls walking around with a camera and taking pictures of couples for cash. I always politely declined when they came around, but of course you wanted to pose for the photograph and had insisted on purchasing it. You immediately framed it and placed a copy on my bookshelf in my home office, where it had remained for over a decade. Until now.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, blinking back a suspicious stinging in my eyes. I carefully closed the box, making sure nothing heavy was on top to damage anything inside of it.

Then, we left the home that had almost always been mine since moving to Vegas – the same home that had sometimes been yours, when you'd wanted it to be. You'd always kept your apartment, which had always bothered me. I never told you it did, but I was sure you knew. Sometimes, I thought you kept that place just to prove to me that you didn't belong to me. It had never occurred to me that maybe you had never moved in with me because I'd never asked you to. But there were a lot of things that had never occurred to me until it was too late.

You asked me again once we started driving where we were going, but I honestly had no idea. My only thought at the moment had been to get out of Vegas. I'd stashed away enough cash over the past year to get us one of those extended stay hotel rooms for a little while, in a city and state far, far away. That hadn't been my intention when I'd started hoarding money in my safe, but I'm glad cashing part of my paycheck each week had seemed like a good idea once I'd noticed the world had started going to shit.

Once you were better, we could head back to Vegas and maybe come up with some justification to get out of town and abandon our obligations to our jobs. Maybe the stress had been too much, maybe we'd had a mental break. They'd have to accept our excuses to get away, they couldn't afford to lose two capable bodies when everyone else was dropping dead like flies.

I wished I could've called my parents before we left, to let them know what we were doing. I had heard from my mother and father a few weeks ago, and as far as I knew they were still alive. I was sure the military would be contacting them sooner rather than later if they hadn't already, and I hated that they would worry. I just couldn't risk calling them from the road in case it would give the military some kind of lead on where we were.

You hadn't heard from your parents or your Papa and Nana Olaf in two months, a fact that surprised me considering how close you were to them. But you were an only child, and with all of your other relatives living in either Minnesota or Norway, there was no one to check on them, and it wasn't like you could take time off to make sure they were okay.

"It's all right, G," I assured you, at your visible distress. I began heading west towards California, watching you worriedly chew on your thumbnail out of the corner of my eye. "We'll check on them, okay? Make sure they're all right, and then we'll head up north. Maybe up to Washington or Montana. Find some place like Wolf Lake and hunker down. Does that sound like a plan?"

We only ended up having enough time to get to the Nevada side of the Nevada/California border before we had to stop for the night. The mandatory curfew issued by the military a few months ago ensured that everyone was inside by sundown; anyone caught outside afterward would be detained and tested on the spot, and there was no way we'd be able to talk our way out of it.

Of course, the motel we'd checked into only had one room left with a double bed. And while it certainly wouldn't be the first time we'd shared a bed, we hadn't slept together in over a year and I didn't want to assume it would be okay with you. I was about to ask when you threw down your overnight bag and dropped heavily onto the bed, laying down on the right side where you'd always slept when we were together. You didn't even give the sleeping arrangements a second glance.

"Do you want me to get you anything?" I asked, your shoes hitting the floor with two distinct thuds as you toed them off. I turned the light on in the bathroom, grimacing at the dingy tiles and water-stained tub.

"No," you replied with a sigh, and closed your eyes. "I'm just tired."

"I'm going to take a shower," I said, as you sat up and began to unbutton your shirt, your eyes searching the room for something. "What are you looking for?"

"Remote," you responded, and I paused in the doorway to watch as your shirt fell from your shoulders, sliding down your arms and pooling around your waist to reveal strong, broad shoulders. My eyes followed your spine down to your trim waist, to the two small dimples of defined muscles right above your ass that I always loved to press my thumbs into when I was gripping your hips as I fucked you from behind. Your pale skin glowed in the soft light of the bedside lamp, muscles cording beneath your skin as you leaned forward and reached for the television remote, and I could just make out the scars marring your smooth skin. I itched to trace them with my tongue.

I pulled my eyes up to your face, meeting your gaze as you looked over your shoulder at me. I felt my face heat up as I realized I'd been busted. You ducked your head, smiling shyly as you bit your lip and turned away, and I don't know how long I stood under the cold water of the shower before I was able to safely come out.

You were watching the television on low volume when I emerged from the bathroom wearing a pair of gym shorts and a tee shirt. The bedcovers were pulled up to your chin, and I couldn't help but wonder what you were wearing. I cleared my throat as I stood beside the bed, and I'm sure you could sense my hesitation. You rolled your eyes before sitting up and pulling the covers back on my side of the bed, waving your hand as you showcased the mattress with a flourish that would put Bob Barker's Beauties to shame. I could see you were only wearing a small pair of dark boxer-briefs.

I smiled at you, although I tried not to, and was rewarded with a knowing smirk as I eased myself into bed beside you. I sat up against the headboard, snatching the remote from between us and flipping through channels. I felt a tightening in my chest at the image of us sharing a bed and watching television before going to sleep, just like we used to so long ago. God, how many times had I just sat beside you and done this without realizing how much it meant? How many times did I take for granted that it would always be like this?

It was much more obvious just how sick you were once we were settled in bed, and I wondered if you had been lying when you said you'd only been ill for a few days. You kept coughing into the bed sheets to cover the noise and blowing your nose every five minutes into a roll of toilet paper you'd nabbed from the bathroom, leaving the balled up tissues on the nightstand. It wasn't like we could just go out and buy cold medicine without raising suspicion, so I only had simple ibuprofen and acetaminophen to offer you, which you gratefully took – both at the same time, and I wasn't sure if you were supposed to do that, but you were a chemist so I figured you would know better than I. Although I wasn't sure how much it helped; I could see how uncomfortable you were, arching your back and shifting your position every so often.

After a while, you finally quieted down, and when I looked at you your eyes were closed, lips slightly parted. I idly perused the channels, trying to concentrate on the program descriptions instead of the sounds of your labored breathing beside me. You shifted again, grunting softly, a small line of tension forming between your eyebrows, and I realized I was watching you again instead of the television. I dared to reach out and brush the hair away from your forehead, my fingers finding warm, damp skin; your cheeks were flushed.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked you quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I didn't want you to worry," you murmured, because of course you wouldn't be sleeping. You opened your eyes and looked up at me. "I know how you get."

I snorted. "Oh, yeah? And how's that?"

You indicated our entire situation with a sweeping gesture of your hand. Your eyes landed on the television as you did so, and you frowned slightly, squinting at the screen. "What are you watching?"

"_Strange Sex_," I responded, shifting uncomfortably. I rubbed the nape of my neck. "The description said 'cougars and their cubs'…I thought it was about animals."

There was the briefest of pauses before you burst into laughter, which was promptly cut short by a coughing fit. You leaned forward, hacking into the bed sheets, your shoulders still shaking as you fought to laugh and cough at the same time. I sighed, a flush creeping up the back of my neck as I waited for you to compose yourself. It didn't seem to be happening any time soon.

"Why – " you began, wiping tears from your eyes. "Why would you want to watch that even if it _was_ about animals?"

"I was curious," I admitted defensively, shrugging as you turned onto your side, facing your back to me. "I wanted to know what was so strange about it."

"You're an idiot, Nick," you declared without heat. Still laughing.

I rolled my eyes, continuing to watch a television show about older women dating much younger men even though I really had no interest, but I was standing on principle at this point. I felt you pull the covers tighter around yourself, which in turn pulled half of them off of me. I gently rearranged them in an effort not to disturb you, but you only yanked them back on the other side of the bed.

"Quit it," I urged, this time roughly pulling the blankets back towards me.

"I'm freezing."

"Do you want me to get you a sweatshirt?" I asked, moving to get up. "There's some in the truck."

"No," you responded quietly, and then murmured so innocently, "It might be nice though if somebody would come over here and warm me up."

I froze at your loaded suggestion, still hovering between remaining in bed and getting out of it to get you a sweatshirt. I didn't even think I was breathing. When I didn't respond immediately, you turned your head to look at me from over your shoulder, the light from the television dancing in your eyes and illuminating the longing and desire in them, coupled with uncertainty and edged with just a little bit of insecurity. You cocked an eyebrow, challenging me.

I didn't want to give in so easily, but when had I ever been able to deny you?

Very slowly, I slid closer to you. My body was nearly flush to yours, but I wasn't touching you – not yet. I inhaled the scent of you, my nose close to your hair, my warm breath ghosting across your neck. I felt your body responding to me, your form stiffening right before you shivered ever so slightly.

I traced my fingertips over a collection of scars on your shoulder, trailed them down your arm, barely brushed over the blond hairs there. When my hand reached yours, you laced your fingers with mine and pulled me closer while settling back against me. I closed my eyes and sighed with relief at the feeling of your warm, strong body finally against mine. I wrapped my arm around your waist, my hand still clutched tightly in yours. I carded the fingers of my other hand through your hair, smoothing down the unruly locks and placing a firm kiss to the back of your head. Again and again.

"I got you, G," I whispered, my voice thick, my eyes burning, my heart breaking. "I swear to God, I got you."

"I know," you simply responded, pushing your ass into my groin, eliciting a gasp from my lips. You arched your back into me, guiding my hand down between your legs. You sighed audibly at the contact, the heat of your erection scalding my palm like a hot brand even through the fabric of your underwear. "Nick…"

I hissed as my own erection painfully strained against my gym shorts. I shifted behind you, easing the ache as I adjusted myself, groaning as my hard cock slid with delicious friction against the cleft of your ass.

You turned in my arms, gripping my bicep with one hand, your other snaking down between us and palming my erection. I draped my uppermost leg over yours, hooking our knees and pulling you closer, grinding our groins together, your hand still trapped between us. Frantically, our lips met, the passion between us igniting in a blaze that I was more than willing to allow to consume me.

God, I wanted you, but through the haze of lust I realized that we were ill-prepared for the occasion.

"Wait…" I murmured against your mouth. "We can't…we can't do this…"

"Why not?" you asked, pulling back in surprise. I couldn't take my eyes off of your lips, dark and swollen from our kissing. "Unless…you don't want me anymore." You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. "Don't tell me you're doing all of this because of some twisted sense of obligation you have towards me. You don't owe me anything, Nick."

"No, no," I hastened to tell you, anything to get you to stop looking at me that way. "We don't…we don't have any protection."

Your expression quickly changed into a mix of shock and disgust. "You've been with someone else?"

I regarded you incredulously, wanting to strike you and kiss you at the same time. The former because it had been over a year since you had been mine, and yet you still expected me to remain faithful to you. The latter for the same exact reason. How much time had I wasted too proud to ask you to come back to me? How much time had I wasted when you had been mine all along?

"No," I assured you.

"Then what's the problem?"

"Have you?" I asked suddenly.

You glared at me at the implication, opening your mouth quickly to retort, but at the last moment you seemed to change your mind. Instead you smirked, shrugging casually, and said, "When would I have had the time?"

I tried to scowl at you, but only managed to narrow my eyes as I fought to compress a grin. You were such a little shit, all bark and no bite – most of the time to hide your insecurities – which was outrageous because you were the most confident and cocky person I had ever met.

There was no one in the world quite like you.

"You know I love you, right?" I asked, and you smiled brightly at me then, biting your bottom lip, and the fact that after all these years I could still make you blush caused a thrill to run right down my spine and straight to my groin.

"I know," you replied, inching closer to me, your fingers playing with the collar of my tee shirt in a nervous gesture. You looked down, and when you met my gaze again your eyes were wet and full of apprehension. "You never stopped, right?"

"No, baby," I assured you, pulling you close into my arms. "I never will."

I drew you into a languid and tender kiss, relishing the feel of your pliant lips against my own. You skimmed your tongue against my mouth, brushing it against my own for the briefest of moments before pulling my bottom lip between your teeth and tugging gently. Your hands skimmed under my shirt, pushing it up my chest as warm fingers skimmed over my abdomen. Back down, your hands traveled, to my shorts, pushing them down my thighs, and I happily complied, lifting my hips off the bed to allow them to slide fully down my legs. I kicked them off, my mouth still connected to yours as I felt you shifting to remove your own underwear.

You rolled onto your back and pulled me on top of you, our bodies touching skin to skin without any barriers for the first time in over a year. I gasped at the heat of your erection against mine as you grinded your hips slowly up against me in wonderfully agonizing torture. Your legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer to you as one hand possessively gripped the nape of my neck, the other snaking around my back, blunt nails digging into my skin as you tried to pull me closer still.

"Nick, please…" you sighed softly against my lips, your voice pleading and breathless. I spit into my hand and reached between us to slick myself up. You spoke again, this time your voice wavering with barely contained emotion. "Please, Nick, show me. Show me how much you love me. I forgot, Nick, I forgot, please, I'm so sorry I forgot, please, Nick, please…"

"Shh…" I soothed you, gripping your hips in my hands and pushing up into you carefully, gently, tenderly. "It's okay, baby. I'll remind you. I'll remind you."

It had been so long since I had felt anything other than despair and misery, since I hadn't felt so alone and afraid and helpless. But in that moment, when our bodies connected as close as two people could get, when I felt the solidness and heat of you against me, felt your strong arms wrapped around me and your soft lips against mine, I began to feel something new yet familiar. Something that was blossoming from the dark recess of my heart, pumping through my veins and spreading through me like wildfire. Something I hadn't felt in so, so long.

I felt hope.

* * *

Shortly after our lovemaking, we'd fallen asleep curled around each other like puppies, but a few hours later I was awoken by an uncomfortable heat at my chest, the front of my tee shirt soaking wet. You must've broken into a fever during the night, your skin damp and much too warm, body shivering beneath the covers. I turned you onto your back, brushing wet hair away from your forehead as I reached over you to turn the bedside lamp on. I was surprised when your eyes met mine, and wondered how long you'd been awake.

"Why didn't you wake me?" I asked you softly.

"I didn't want to bother you," you replied simply, shrugging. "You must be tired."

I offered you a stern glance, rising from the bed and fetching a wet washcloth from the bathroom. I grabbed some fever reducer from the overnight bag and a glass of water, and then returned to you, sitting down at the edge of the bed beside you. I helped you sit up to take the pills and drink some water before gently laying you back down, placing the cool washcloth against the feverish skin of your forehead.

My eyes widened as your face crumpled and tears began spilling from the corners of your eyes. Your sudden distress alarmed me, and I quickly slipped my hands on either side of your face, brushing your tears away with my thumbs. You braceleted my wrists with slender fingers, pushing my hands away and turning away from me.

"What's wrong?" I asked hastily. "Tell me what's wrong, Greg."

"You don't love me," you blurted out absurdly, as you began to cry harder.

I sat back, startled. "What?"

"After everything I've done to you," you continued, your breath hitching. "You _can't_ love me, Nick. I – "

"Greg, stop it," I tried gently, but you quickly cut me off.

"No, Nick!" you insisted sharply. "I always left you because I knew you'd wait for me, and you always did, you always did. I said terrible things, I _did_ terrible things, I didn't mean any of them, I only did it to hurt you because I knew how, and you – you're still doing all of this for me. You dropped everything, your career, your whole life – you could go to _jail_ if they catch us! I don't – I don't understand, Nick, I don't understand. How can you still love me?"

"We've both made mistakes," I reminded you, slipping my hands on either side of your face, and I wondered how much the fever was affecting your emotional state, because you were never like this. I think I'd seen you cry twice in the time I'd known you. I pulled you nose to nose, forcing you to look into my eyes. "I've hurt you too, haven't I? And you still love me, don't you?"

You nodded silently, tears continuing to spill onto my fingers, but I could tell you were still unconvinced. I clicked my tongue disapprovingly.

"Come here," I said, as I turned off the light and shifted back onto the bed, leaning against the headboard and pulling you into my arms and cradling your head against my chest, rocking you gently. I felt a stinging in my own eyes, my voice thickening as I continued. "Remember when I went into that box, and I came out somebody else? You still loved me after that, right?"

You nodded again. I felt your shaking start to subside as you began to calm down.

"Remember when I chased after that suspect with Riley? The guy that jumped out the window and fell in the dumpster and died?" I asked, recalling how angry you had been with me for putting myself in danger when I should have just let him run. My life wasn't worth whatever amount of money he'd stolen from that convenience store, and he'd been more than willing to shoot me for it. "Remember you didn't talk to me for five days? But you still loved me, right?"

Another nod, this one slower. I felt your body still against mine, your breathing evening as you drifted into sleep.

"Remember when I went to L.A. with Langston and got demoted for it? You still loved me after that," I continued. "Remember when I got shot, and then nearly blown up half a dozen times? You still loved me then. And when I quit my job and got really, really drunk, and got arrested and had to spend the night in the drunk tank? You gave Sara the money to bail me out in the morning because you were so mad at me. You still loved me then."

I felt warm tears hitting my tee shirt, and I knew they weren't from you. I held you tightly, inhaling the scent of your hair and kissing the top of your head.

"Remember when I let you leave?" I asked the darkness, my voice barely a whisper. "Remember when you threw the house keys at me and walked out, and I let you go? You still loved me then, Greg. You still loved me then. And I still love you."

* * *

I had woken up early, getting ready while it was still dark and leaving the room to grab us some breakfast as soon as curfew lifted at sunrise. You were still sleeping when I came back, your soft snores the only sound in the small space. You usually didn't snore, but the congestion in your nose and chest was causing you to do so, and I frowned in concern not for the first time since last night, hesitating to wake you up.

I sighed as I placed the paper bag of food on the dresser, moving across the room to sit down at the edge of the bed beside you. Gently, I reached out and touched your forehead, pleased when you didn't feel too warm. I decided to give you a few more minutes, rising from the bed and gathering our things, leaving out a few toiletries so you could shower and brush your teeth.

I grabbed my overnight bag with the intent of putting it in the SUV, and opened the door to step outside when I saw them: a group of armed soldiers exiting a military vehicle in the parking lot, another vehicle pulling up right behind them. My heart hammered in my chest as I quickly stepped back inside the room and slammed the door closed.

The sound startled you awake. You sat up quickly, regarding me with alarm.

"What is it?" you asked breathlessly.

"Military," I responded in a whisper, as if they could hear me all the way from the parking lot. I peered through the blinds, watching soldiers descending upon the motel like a swarm of bees. _"Fuck."_

There was a sudden blur of movement as we scrambled around the room, you quickly pulling on some clothes as I hastily packed up the rest of our stuff. I looked surreptitiously through the blinds again, checking to see if there was any way we could slip past them, but not only were there several men meandering through the parking lot, one of their trucks was blocking the only exit to the street.

The motel was shaped in a U with all doors facing the parking lot. I could see soldiers across the way knocking on doors, I could hear their banging only a few rooms away from ours. Men's commanding voices, demanding to be allowed inside for a mandatory room check. I wondered just then how many people had been trying to escape the same way we had. How many people had just packed away their entire life into their car and left their homes hoping to hide away in a place like this.

Obviously, we weren't the first.

A woman's shrill scream penetrated the men's voices, and I watched as she was roughly led from her room into the back of one of the military vehicles equipped for holding and transporting detainees. There was a boy trailing behind her who appeared to be no older than a teenager, and I wondered if he was her son. They stopped him before he could get into the truck. He was crying as he stood on the pavement, pleading with an impassive young soldier who only pushed the boy aside without a second glance.

"Nick," you choked out behind me, your voice barely a whisper. I turned to find you sitting on the bed, your posture tense, wet eyes displaying your pure, unadulterated fear. Your fingers gripped the edge of the bed tightly, knuckles white. I sat down beside you quickly, gently uncurling your fingers from the mattress and grasping your hand in mine, staring at the closed blinds as if I could see through them.

Despite the loud banging on the door of the room that must've been right next to ours, I could hear your breath coming in short, quick bursts. Could see your chest rising and falling in my periphery, my eyes focused on the door.

"It's okay," you said suddenly, and when I looked at you, I could still see the terror in your eyes, but your expression was something akin to acceptance.

My breath caught in my throat and I shook my head, incredulous. "What?"

"It's okay, Nick," you assured me again, your voice soothing. You nodded ever so slightly, encouragingly, and gave me the saddest smile I had ever seen.

"No," I said, as banging on our own door cut sharply through the air.

_"Open the door. This is a mandatory room check. Have your IDs ready."_

"Open the door."

"No," I repeated, more firmly this time. I gripped your hand tightly in mine, shaking my head as I gritted my teeth and blinked away the stinging in my eyes. This wasn't it. This wasn't going to be the end. It couldn't be.

_"Open the door, now! This is not a request!"_

"They're going to open it anyway."

"Let them," I declared recklessly.

Keys in the lock, and then the door slammed open loudly. I quickly released your hand and moved to stand between you and the soldiers at the entrance, as if I could shield you from them, stop them somehow even though they were all carrying assault rifles and various other weaponry.

"Didn't you hear us?" one of the soldiers asked, a handsome man with dark hair whose nametag read _Rodriguez._ He regarded both of us warily, lips in a tight line. "Why didn't you open the door?"

"Didn't want to," I responded curtly, carefully watching the three other men entering the room. One of them stepped closer to you, his M16 in the low ready position, aimed somewhere at your feet, but the implication was clear. Another moved towards the bathroom, flicking on the light and taking a look inside. The other stayed behind Rodriguez, his expression set like granite.

"IDs," Rodriguez commanded, holding out an open hand. I reached into my back pocket and fished out my wallet, handing him my driver's license. You did the same, extending yours to the soldier standing beside you, who handed it to Rodriguez. He glanced quickly at my ID and quirked an eyebrow, his gaze shifting between the two of us. "Local boys. What are you doing out here?"

My mind was racing for any excuse for us to be an hour outside of Las Vegas in some seedy motel when both of us lived in in the city. I opened my mouth, attempting to force words out of my throat but unable to produce anything that would sound remotely credible.

"He's married," you blurted out, and suddenly there were four pairs of eyes on you, including mine, which were wide with disbelief. You rubbed the nape of your neck, appearing sheepish as you looked up at Rodriguez from beneath dark eyelashes, smiling coyly, and I never realized how much of a sucker I'd been before to fall for that innocent look until right now.

Rodriguez turned back to me, handing me my ID with narrowed eyes. "Where's your ring?"

"He doesn't like it when I wear it," I hastily replied, stealing a glance at you out of the corner of my eye, but you were watching the soldier beside you as he moved with interest towards the nightstand on the side of the bed you were sitting on. The glass of water was still standing there half full, surrounded by a thick ring of condensation. Also surrounded by wads of toilet paper that had been used as makeshift tissues, a bottle of fever reducer and a washcloth. Your eyes met his only briefly before he turned his gaze to Rodriguez.

"Sir," the soldier said, indicating the nightstand with a nod.

"Hold out your hand," Rodriguez barked at me, and then to you, "You too."

The soldier standing behind Rodriguez stepped forward, producing a handheld medical device used for H3N2 spot testing in the field. One hundred percent accurate. My stomach dropped to my knees as you extended your hand out towards him. I stepped in front of him first, holding my hand out in an attempt to buy time, but in reality I was only delaying the inevitable.

The soldier gripped my wrist and I flinched as the device pricked my finger, a strip absorbing a drop of my blood before he released me. I waited as the machine whirred softly, only seconds passing before it beeped. He looked up at Rodriguez.

"Negative."

Rodriguez nodded towards you, his expression almost challenging. You held out your hand, which the large soldier took easily. Pressed the device to your finger and –

"Wait!" I exclaimed, stepping forward quickly and realizing my mistake when I felt arms grabbing me from behind and shoving me face first into the wall. I felt the breath escape my lungs, the shock of the blow temporarily stunning me.

_"Positive."_

"Nick!" you shouted, as I regained my bearings and began to struggle. The soldier gripped one of my hands tightly, curling my wrist painfully in a grappling hold I'd used hundreds of times before on resisting suspects. "Stop it! You're going to hurt yourself!"

"Listen to your boyfriend," the soldier hissed in my ear, heightening my anger. I kicked at his ankle, managing to knock him off balance. I elbowed him in the gut and pushed him off of me, but the stone-faced soldier that had been holding the device was now in front of me, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me back into the wall again, knocking my head against the cheap plaster hard enough to make me see stars.

"Nick!" you yelled again, and now the soldier that had been standing beside you was grabbing your arm and lifting you roughly into a standing position. You barely glanced at him, instead focusing worriedly on me. "Nick, it's all right! It's okay!"

"No!" I screamed, struggling against the two soldiers holding me back bodily as you were pushed face first into the mattress. Your eyes stayed on me as zip ties were placed on your wrists and pulled tight. "He's not sick! He's not sick, he's not sick, don't take him, he's not sick!"

"He tested positive," Rodriguez stated, his face displaying his disgust as he spared you a quick glance. "He's coming with us, and if you don't calm the fuck down you'll be heading straight to lockup."

You were hoisted up once more, gracelessly tripping over your feet as you were forcefully ushered towards the door. They were taking you away. They were taking you away from me, and I'd never see you again. No one would ever see you again. I'd promised you, I'd promised you I'd keep you safe, and they were taking you away.

"Greg!" I cried, a kind of terror gripping my heart that I had never felt before. "You can't take him! Please, don't take him!"

"Nick," you said, your voice eerily calm, cutting through my haze of hysteria. I paused as you gave me one last look, and I will never forget as long as I live that you smiled at me – you _smiled_, reassuring and comforting and so fucking sincere, and I could have never loved you more than I did right in that moment. "Remember Wolf Lake, Nick. I'll always be at Wolf Lake."

"No!" I screamed, jerking my body forward in an attempt to break free, pushing and hitting and kicking and anything I could do to get to you. Continued to fight and scream and plead as they shoved me into the floor, as they pushed and hit and kicked in return, and I saw your back as they led you away before I felt a sharp pain at the back of my head, and then I saw nothing.

* * *

End Part One. To be continued in Part Two. I will be on vacation for a month, so I decided to post all of Part One at one time. Please leave me some love! It will be wonderful to return home to.


	11. July 6, 2014

**TWO**

* * *

_ "Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception."_

_- Carl Sagan_

* * *

Liberty Times (a Patriot Group publication), Las Vegas Edition, July 6, 2014: _"Yesterday, local military conducted SWAT-style raids on any hotels and motels, searching for Positives and arresting any citizens found to be harboring or assisting Positives. Positives were taken to several various quarantines, all of which are overcrowded, understaffed, and rife with unsanitary and unsafe conditions. Those looking to contact their loved ones in quarantine are advised to call a hotline, even though most cannot be located due to negligent military procedures."_

* * *

_"I got something!" you exclaimed, jumping up and down on the dock like an excited little boy. You gripped the fishing pole tightly, your smile bright and dazzling in the sunshine. "Nick! Nicky, something's biting!"_

_"Well, don't just stand there!" I shouted back at you from the other end of the dock, your smile infectious as I felt the corners of my mouth rising. "Reel it in!"_

_"Oh!" Your laugh was light and laced with embarrassment. For a moment you fought with your reel, fumbling with the complicated mechanism. I had warned you not to buy it, to get a simpler one, but you'd insisted that a degree in chemistry from Stanford spoke for itself and you were therefore perfectly capable of figuring out how to use a reel, no matter how advanced of a model it was. "I don't know how! Help me!"_

_"All right, all right," I sighed, putting my rod down carefully before jogging over to you. I took the rod out of your hands and expertly began working the reel. You crouched forward, hands on your knees as you anxiously watched the water._

_"It's huge! What is it?" you asked eagerly, as I reeled the fish closer to the surface of the water. It didn't actually look that big to me. "Maybe it's a shark!"_

_My eyes briefly drifted over the lake. "I doubt it's a shark, Greg."_

_"Maybe it's an alligator," you mused, squinting up at me against the sun with one eye closed. "You know? Like on that TV show?"_

_"I'm pretty sure it's a catfish."_

_"Oh, man, if it's an alligator we'll need a gun. Do you have a gun in the truck?"_

_"I wouldn't worry about it. It's definitely a catfish," I told you, as I finally pulled the fish out of the water. I didn't much like catfish, and was pretty disappointed we hadn't nabbed a bass._

_The fact that it was a catfish did nothing to extinguish your enthusiasm. You snatched the rod out of my hands, proudly admiring your catch. Turned back to me with a beatific smile. "See? Told you I could fish. Now you just have to teach me to hunt."_

* * *

When I woke up, I was inside of a holding cell with about twenty other people. I was propped up in the corner, one of my wrists cuffed to a pipe installed into the wall for that specific purpose. My head felt like it'd been split in two until a mad scientist had decided to haphazardly put it back together. Tentatively, I brushed my fingers over the back of my skull, tracing over a large and tender lump. I was still dizzy, blinking hard against the harsh lights of the room as I fought not to vomit.

Instinctively, I looked for you, but of course you weren't there. I wondered where you were, what was happening to you, if I'd be able to find you. I had been inside of a quarantine hospital only once while collecting evidence after one patient had murdered another. There had been so many people there, some patients didn't even have a room assigned to them or a bed to sleep in, instead loitering in hallways and sleeping on floors. One man that had died from the flu had been placed on a cot in the hallway before I arrived, and he remained there for the entire four hours I spent at the scene, was still there when I left. The hospital was so understaffed and overwhelmed, no one had the time to take him downstairs to the morgue. They didn't even give him a second glance, just walked by as if he wasn't even there.

What I remembered the most about that scene was the fact that the victim had been murdered over a sandwich. Speaking to some of the patients, I'd learned that there wasn't enough food to go around, and that the man who had committed the murder hadn't eaten in three days. Survival of the fittest at its most basic level.

I hated imagining you in a place like that. Because despite spending ten years as a CSI investigating murders and kidnappings and rapes and child molestations, despite getting beat up in an alley and left for dead, despite getting publicly and humiliatingly run through the ringer for running down a boy who was trying to kill you, despite that burlesque dancer taking advantage of you…despite _everything_, you still believed that the best of people were hidden up their sleeves. I still remembered what Sara said you told her when she had asked if you ever thought you'd had enough of doing what we do every day. You looked at her with that mischievous glint in your eye and a disarming smile – _"I'm just getting started."_

You were too trusting, too giving, too hopeful. Too naïve. You wouldn't survive there.

I tried to hold on to hope. I tried to hold on to the image of your smile – to the hopeful, reassuring smile you'd given me as they took you away. I tried to hold on to the feeling of you in my arms last night, to that one perfect moment when I felt like we could do anything as long as we did it together.

But my mind kept drifting back to the look of terror in your eyes as you sat on the bed in the motel room listening to the loud banging of the soldiers' knocking on doors. I couldn't help imagining that same look as someone beat you with an IV pole until you stopped breathing because he wanted your food. I couldn't help imagining your dead body lying on a cot for hours as people meandered by without giving you a second glance.

I wasn't sure how long I sat there listening to the sounds of the jail around me – harsh buzzing from automatic doors opening and closing, sparse conversation between cellmates, the occasional command from an officer or soldier entering and leaving with and without detainees – before someone called my name.

"Stokes," a uniformed officer said from the doorway. He gestured for me to step forward with a bored expression that quickly turned to annoyance when I indicated my cuffed wrist. Rolling his eyes, he crossed the room to release me before sharply turning on his heel and leading me out of the pen. Numbly, I followed him down a hallway and into a large room with rows of chairs filled with people waiting to be processed. He led me to a counter, speaking to the woman behind it as my eyes traveled over the room, still looking for you even though I knew you wouldn't be there.

Before I really understood what was happening, a ziploc bag was unceremoniously dropped onto the counter, the woman behind it shoving a pen and clipboard into my hands. "Please sign."

I looked up, confused. "For what?"

"That all your stuff is there," she responded with exasperation, as if it should have been obvious. She unzipped the bag and dumped my wallet, watch, ring and keys onto the counter. "You can pick up your car from the impound. The receipt for that is there too, and an inventory for everything in it."

"I'm being released?" I asked dubiously, absently scribbling my name on the form. She pushed my personal items forward, nearly pushing them off the counter before I hastily grabbed them, along with my copies of the paperwork.

"CSI Stokes is right," she deadpanned, and dismissed me with a wave of her hand. I quickly moved aside as she indicated for the next person to step forward. It didn't occur to me to wonder how she knew I was a CSI while I hurried to catch up to the officer who had originally led me out of the holding cell. He was impatiently waiting for me at the security doors, punching in a code and pushing the door open as soon as I was close. He took my elbow and practically shoved me outside, about to close the door in my face when I braced my hand against it.

"I don't understand," I stated, shaking my head.

"Ask her," he responded, pointing over my shoulder, and as soon as I turned to look the door slammed behind me.

Sara was leaning against the fence, hands in her coat pockets. As our eyes met, she immediately pushed herself forward, stopping abruptly as we stood three feet apart, almost hesitant. She opened her mouth once, twice, before finally speaking.

"We have to stop meeting like this," she stated, referring to the first time she'd bailed me out of jail, after I'd quit my job and gotten into a fistfight with a couple of cops outside of a liquor store while shitfaced. She tried to smile – forced – the same smile she used when trying not to vomit at a crime scene, insisting it curbed the gag reflex.

"Sara," I choked out, my breath catching in my chest. I could see the silent question in her eyes, wondering where you were, hoping that her fears weren't true. I only shook my head, the emotion I'd been holding in for hours suddenly bubbling up and boiling over. Quickly, she stepped closer and pulled me into an embrace, holding me tightly as I wept unabashedly into her shoulder.

"I tried, Sara," I cried, as my body was wracked with sobs. "I tried, I swear I tried, but they took him. I promised him I'd keep him safe, and they took him, Sara, they took him, they took him."

"It's okay," she soothed, but her voice was rough with emotion. I could feel her slender fingers clutching the back of my shirt. "As soon as we get back to Vegas, we'll start looking. We'll find him, Nick. We'll find him."

* * *

To be continued...


	12. August 14, 2014

USA Today, August 14, 2014: _"The military wishes to remind all citizens searching for loved ones in quarantine to remain patient while they process an overwhelming influx of patients. Please do not contact the hotline more than once a day, as operators are currently flooded with phone calls, and do not panic if your loved one cannot be reached immediately; he or she is awaiting processing and will be located shortly."_

* * *

"Damn it!" Sara exclaimed, as she slammed the phone down in the break room. She took her pen and crossed a line through a location and phone number in her battered spiral-bound notebook before continuing to scribble angrily back and forth over and over again until I could hear the page ripping. She threw her pen across the room, shoved the notebook away and folded her arms across the table before dropping her face onto her arms and groaning with frustration.

"Sara," I began cautiously, leaning back in my chair. I sighed heavily as I ran my hand down my face, fingers brushing over my beard that hadn't been trimmed in God knew how long. "We've been calling for over a month."

"Forty days," she specified, peeking up at me, her voice muffled by her shirt sleeves.

Forty days. It had been forty days since they had taken you. Since I had hastily pulled you from the lab and foolishly insisted that I could keep you safe if we got out of there, got anywhere but Vegas, as if the virus and the military and quarantines didn't exist outside of Sin City. Forty days since I had returned to our house without you, to see your car in my driveway and the front door kicked in, the wooden frame shattered just like my fantasy of you and I running off together and hiding out in some place like Wolf Lake, living out our happily ever after. God, what a joke. What an idiot I was, to think I could protect you.

And now, after the fact, of course it was easy to see how many things I could have done differently to save your life. If I had woken up earlier, if I had skipped getting breakfast, if I had been paying attention and noticed you were sick, hadn't let my pride get in the way of asking you to come back to me, if I hadn't let you walk away from me in the first place.

Forty days. Forty days of phone calls to that stupid quarantine hotline, forty days of calling each individual quarantine in Nevada and surrounding states. Forty days, each getting harder than the one before to believe that you were still out there somewhere and not lying in a mass grave, your body disintegrating into ash and bone fragments as it burned without anyone wondering if someone would miss you or if anyone had ever loved you or if you even had a name.

"Oh, my God," Sara blurted out then, lifting her head from her arms and gaping at me. "You're giving up."

I took a deep breath, pursing my lips for a moment as I tried to form the words. I cast my eyes to the table, clutching a pen and doodling a continuous circle on my steno pad. Finally, I cleared my throat, speaking quietly. "I'm not giving up. I just don't know how many more times we're going to make the same phone call and get the same answer."

"Until we get a different answer," she stated, regarding me dubiously. "Until we find him."

As if it was that simple. I shook my head, scoffing at the implication. "The longer we sit here making phone calls, the longer we're deluding ourselves."

"So what do you suggest?" she asked, holding her hands out in a pleading gesture. She scowled at me, jaw clenched, lips in a tight line. "Do you want us to knock on the front door of every quarantine in the state of Nevada? In California? Utah? And if they even let us in – which they won't – do you think we'll be able to find him amongst the thousands of patients they have in each one? Is that what you want? Or maybe we should build a time machine, and _then_ we can – "

"God damn it, Sara!" I exclaimed, standing up so quickly my chair nearly toppled over behind me. "You think I don't want to find him? You think – "

"I think you're giving up!"

"Call it what you want!" I yelled, grabbing my steno pad and throwing it across the room, watching the pages flutter like a bird's wings as it soared through the air before crashing to the floor in a heap.

"Call it what _you_ want, Nick!" Sara spat back, standing up herself and pointing at me, her face contorted in anger. "But I know one thing: if one of us was out there, and Greg was here, he wouldn't give up on us. He _didn't_. He didn't give up when you were in that box or when I was under that car, so I'm not going to give up on him."

We stood toe to toe, jaws clenched, breathing hard. I felt heat creeping up the back of my neck, spreading to my cheeks and ears as shame overtook me. Sara was right. You had never given up on us, and here I was ready to throw in the towel because I couldn't handle hearing another operator tell me they had no record of you. I collapsed back into my chair, raking my fingers through my hair before burying my face in my hands and inhaling sharply.

"Fuck," I breathed, hot tears escaping my eyes as I wondered if you were scared and alone and hungry. Wondered if you were hoping that someone was still looking for you, if that hope was the only thing that was keeping you hanging on when all you could see was a green light, when all you could feel was the sting of bites all over your body and the press of cool metal against your chin.

"It's all right," Sara soothed from beside me, her hand rubbing comforting circles on my back. "I know it's hard, Nick. I know, but it'll be all right. It's only been forty days."

Forty days. A lot could happen in that amount of time. A puffin could lay an egg and create another puffin. A cicada could shed its skin and die. A man could resist temptation in the desert from the devil and live to tell about it. The world could end and start again as a different man struggled to survive a great flood in a boat with his family. Another man could be taken to quarantine, die from the virus, from starvation, from unsanitary conditions, from being beaten to death over a fucking sandwich.

Sara knew that as much as I did. But she was right. You hadn't given up on us at the eleventh hour, we at least owed it to you to do the same.

* * *

To be continued...


	13. September 28, 2014

I'm so sorry this has taken me forever to post. I appreciate your patience.

* * *

Liberty Times (a Patriot Group publication), Las Vegas Edition, September 28, 2014: _"The military continues to use our once-reputable periodicals to spread their propaganda. Don't believe what you hear about a cure or the virus slowing down or that quarantine is working. The virus has gained momentum and is spreading faster than ever. Tension is reaching critical mass, and we must prepare ourselves for war. The battle for survival is near."_

* * *

Between the constant rioting in the streets and violent crime at an ultimate high, it was getting more and more dangerous to leave the protective custody of the military. Homes were no longer safe havens, survivors breaking in for food, for provisions, for shelter, for much more sinister intentions. The scarce employees remaining at the Crime Lab had taken up residence in empty offices or on call rooms, including myself. It wasn't much better in here; theft was running rampant with supplies such as food and toiletries running low, but at least my chances of eating everyday were better than those stuck outside.

Not that I really had a choice to go back home anyway; my house had been one of dozens destroyed by fires in my neighborhood. And I probably should have been more upset. But as I watched the home we once shared burn to the ground on the news – the one you would never return to again, and now, neither would I – I felt an odd sense of satisfaction. I was glad to rid myself of just one of many constant reminders of you – of your absence and of my failure to keep you safe.

And while you may not have lived there for over a year before they took you, I would always think of it as our home. You were everywhere: in the paint colors of our bedroom that you'd picked out, in the dark stain on the bathroom sink where you'd splattered hair dye, in the burn on the living room carpet when we'd attempted to play with candlewax during one of our more adventurous sexual exploits that resulted in us nearly burning the entire house down, in the vast expanse of the empty mattress beside me as I lay down to sleep.

Mostly everyone had to share a room here, but I'd managed to maintain my own space in an old storage closet. It wasn't much, just a sleeping bag, a desk lamp, and some personal items like my clothes, shoes, toiletries. It was small, but it was mine, mostly thanks to the deadbolt I'd installed on the door. I'd gotten it out of storage, evidence from an old case that I was sure didn't matter anymore, because nothing really did.

I only wished I would have been able to take some of those mementos you had packed away so carefully in that box when we'd attempted to run. At least I had our picture from our first date; I had removed it from the frame after coming home from lockup and carefully folded it, placing it in my wallet. It was the only thing I had left of us, and I looked at it every spare chance I got. In between picking up bodies and spot testing for the virus and tracking down Patriot Group members, it was my talisman, my beacon of hope, the only source of my light in life when everything else was so dark.

We still tried in vain to find you at every quarantine in Nevada and surrounding states, eventually moving on to include quarantines located two or three states over. Sara and I called every day in between cases or running evidence, on the way to and from scenes, on the rare chances we had a break to eat. The 24-hour hotline began closing at 5pm every business day and on weekends, with more and more private lines to individual quarantines disconnected every day.

Quarantines were shutting down all over the country, overrun with disease and no one to minister to the sick. The idea of removing so-called "Positives" from the general population had long been abandoned. Doctors and nurses and soldiers dying with the rest of them, entire buildings condemned without anyone even bothering to retrieve the bodies and ensure identification or a proper burial. It was the same for private homes, apartment buildings, hotels, motels. There simply wasn't enough manpower left in the population to keep up with the flow of death.

I don't know why Sara and I continued to work. Habit, I guess, and to forget the fact that we were now alone. Grissom left as quietly and swiftly as he'd arrived. He'd been called to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, Georgia, on account of his reputation as a scientist. They had asked him to assist in finding a cure or a way to deter the virus – anything to help stop what surely was fast becoming the end of the human race, and he'd just…left. Just like that.

I don't know why Sara stayed behind. I hoped she hadn't stayed for me, but I was too afraid to ask. I could see the tension in her face, her lips in a tight line, the tiny pronounced wrinkle in between her eyebrows and the set of her jaw. I didn't want to be responsible for her current misery, and maybe she might've had a better chance at survival in Georgia. Maybe she would've had a nicer place to live than sharing an on call room with five other people.

At the same time, I was glad she didn't go. I wasn't sure if I would've been able to hang on knowing that I was really, truly alone. It was bad enough at night in that storage closet with nothing but your picture and my own thoughts to torment me. Sometimes it felt smaller than that glass box I'd been buried in. And sometimes…sometimes…I'd close my eyes tight and press that gun under my chin and imagine green lights and stifling hot air and the only thing that would keep me from pulling the trigger was the same thing that kept me from pulling the trigger all those years ago: You.

Unfortunately, not everyone had something to keep them hanging on.

I traversed the hallways of the lab, making my way to the office I'd been summoned and passing Brass' old office in the process. It had long ago been cleared of all of his personal items, replaced with a military captain's awards and plaques and pictures of his family. The captain was dead now too, but no one had seemed to replace him yet. I doubt anyone would.

I found him sitting in his office, the gold badge on his chest glinting in the afternoon sun peeking in through the blinds. Sherriff Ecklie was slumped low in his chair, hands hidden beneath a desk littered with tissues and empty water bottles, fever reducers, pain relievers, and various prescription medications. His eyes were closed, skin pale, hair damp with sweat that beaded down his face and soaked through his white dress shirt. He'd been sick for a while, along with most everyone else in this place, in this city, in this world.

The idea of quarantine had long been abandoned. The idea of any kind of solution. The idea of any kind of hope.

"You wanted to see me?" I asked presently, clenching my jaw as I fought the urge to vomit at the overwhelming stench of death and stale air. Air conditioning had gone out months ago, emergency generators handling the barest of necessary amenities. I longingly eyed the closed windows, wondering when the last time was that he'd opened them.

Slowly, Ecklie opened his eyes, bloodshot and glassy as they tried unsuccessfully to focus on me. His head lolled back against the high back of his black leather chair, his lips twisting in what I assumed was meant to be a smile but the blood on his teeth ruined the effect. My eyes widened at how terrifying it actually appeared.

"Nick," he greeted me, his voice hoarse. He swallowed audibly, bringing his head up and breathing hard from the effort. He indicated the guest chair in front of his desk with a nod. "Have a seat."

Cautiously, I moved closer to the chair, gripping the back of it with both hands and leaning forward. I didn't sit. I didn't want to give the impression that I wanted to stay.

I cleared my throat. "Conrad."

"You remember Morgan, don't you?" he asked apropos of nothing, and sniffled loudly. He brought one hand up from his lap, revealing a picture frame containing Morgan's bright, smiling face. She was wearing a black cap and gown, a diploma clutched tightly in her hands, a woman I assumed to be her mother standing beside her with watery eyes and a smile just as big as her daughter's. "My daughter, remember her?"

"Yeah, I remember her."

"Did I ever tell you about the day she was born?"

I blinked, shifting uncomfortably. "Uh…no, sir."

"Wish I could," he stated, and smiled again, bitterly this time. "But I wasn't there. I was out on shift, working a high profile case. All hands on deck. Couldn't…_wouldn't_ leave. I always put the job first. Always. Above my health. Above my family. Above loyalties to coworkers and people who thought they were my friends. Above…above the birth of my only daughter."

He jerked forward in his chair, nearly doubling over as he coughed and hacked into the crook of his elbow. I hesitated between moving to him to make sure he was all right and standing where I was, but he was soon calm and leaned back again, blood staining the sleeve of his jacket. He licked his lips, his tongue smearing ruby red across his mouth but he didn't seem to notice.

"Her mother and I had gotten into a fight that day," he went on, after a few moments of catching his breath. "She kept calling at work and I thought it was because of the fight. I didn't know it was because she went into labor. Morgan wasn't due for another month. So I ignored her, just to be a prick. Didn't find out my daughter was born until the next day when I came home to an empty house and about a hundred messages on my answering machine.

"When she told me…when her mother told me she was pregnant, the only thing I could think about was how a baby was going to interfere with my career. Jenny wasn't even supposed to be able to get pregnant, and yet there she was…this beautiful little baby girl. Morgan. Morgan Ecklie." He laughed, a wet, sickening sound that made my gut churn uneasily. "No, not Morgan Ecklie. Morgan Brody, thanks to me."

"Conrad, what is this about?" I asked quietly, my knuckles white as I grasped the chair hard.

"How long have you been here, Nick?"

"About seventeen years."

"Thirty-seven years this October," he informed me, and smiled that same, bloody death grin. _Risus sardonicus_ was what they called it in the morgue, when a sustained spasm of the facial muscles produced the appearance of grinning on a corpse. I swallowed the bitter taste of bile in the back of my throat. "CSI Level 3, right?"

I nodded silently.

"Is this what you thought you'd still be doing? Say, ten years ago? Five? Or did you hope for something else?" He indicated his desk, his office, with a sweeping gesture of his hand, still gripping the picture of his daughter. "Did you hope for this?"

Ecklie was the most successful man I knew. Wealthy, career-driven, politically savvy, friends with all the right people. Everything I had always wanted for myself, everything I had pictured ten, twenty years from now. And yet here he was at the end of his life, sitting alone in his empty office at a desk I'd always fantasized myself behind. No wife, no children, no real friends. Just a job and a car and an empty house and a big shiny gold badge.

He was pathetic.

He was me.

"You almost had it, didn't you?" he continued, his voice breaking with a wheeze. "Assistant supervisor? Bet that felt good, you really deserved it after dedicating so many years of your life to this place. After they said no to your ransom. You deserved it, didn't you? But this place took it away from you. Just like it takes everything else. Daughters, wives, friends…what was his name? The…your friend. What was his name?"

"Which one?" I asked, frowning. I had lost lots of friends over the past years, especially in the last few months, and with Ecklie's erratic mental status, he could have been talking about anyone.

"Your friend," he pressed, waving the picture frame in his hand for emphasis. "The one…the one that got beat up in that alley. The one that blew up, his CDs melted to the ceiling. What was…what was his name? He was your friend, wasn't he? He was more than your friend."

I swallowed hard. You and I had never disclosed our relationship to anyone except Warrick and Sara, but it wasn't a surprise to me that he might've known. We had been especially mum after the fallout from Sara and Grissom's secret affair, but I'm sure Ecklie had been paying much closer attention to his employees and their interpersonal relationships after that HR nightmare, watching carefully and ready to step in at a moment's notice.

"Greg," I finally responded.

"Yeah, Greg. San…" he trailed off, searching for the last name he couldn't recall. "Greg San…"

"Sanders," I finished for him, my voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah, Sanders. Took him too, didn't it?" He shook his head ruefully. "Before the military took him, this place took him, didn't it?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. I could only remember all the nights you'd asked me to spend time with you and I'd recklessly denied you my attention, because there was always tomorrow and I had my career to think about _now_. All the nights I'd missed watching a _House, M.D._ marathon on the couch with you because I hated that show and had too much paperwork to catch up on. All the nights I'd made plans to go out to some bar with you and your friends only to volunteer to work because your friends were too loud and I hated gay bars. All the nights you went to bed and looked at me with those bedroom eyes, asking in a suggestive whisper how late I was going to stay up and all I could tell you was not to wait up for me because I was researching for a case.

"Because this place is more important, isn't it?" Ecklie asked, nodding knowingly. I shook my head quickly, his visage blurring through the stinging in my eyes. My breath started coming faster, my heart beating rapidly in my chest. The large office I'd always envied was suddenly seeming as small as that glass box I'd been buried in, and just as suffocating. "Of course it is. That's why it's just me and you here, Nick. And now it's just you."

I saw the flash of metal too late, his other hand that had been resting on his lap and hidden beneath the desk.

_"No!"_ I screamed, reaching forward as he slid the muzzle of his gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. I closed my eyes tightly as the shot resounded through the air, echoing off of the walls and ringing in my ears. I didn't even hear the dull thud as his body slid down the chair and to the floor, leaving a trail of blood and bones and brain matter in its wake.

* * *

To be continued...


	14. November 28, 2014

Liberty Times Fliers (a Patriot Group), Las Vegas, November 28, 2014: _"THE END IS HERE. LEAVE THE CITIES WHILE YOU STILL CAN. JOIN THE RESISTANCE SURVIVORS CAMP. WE CAN WORK TOGETHER TO ENSURE SAFETY AND SURVIVAL."_

* * *

To believe we were safer in the Crime Lab – a government building filled with police employees and military personnel – should have been a reasonable assumption. It was the wrong assumption, however, and in hindsight we should have known, but after you were taken and Grissom left, Sara and I got a little distracted when we should have been paying closer attention.

There were only a few of us left now in the lab, no more reinforcements arriving, no more new hires or volunteers. Sara and I probably should have left the city when everyone else did, but it was a new world out there, unfamiliar and unforgiving. There were no more laws, no more rules, and while there still should have been some kind of moral compass within each one of us – some kind of instinctive distinction between right and wrong – no one seemed to recollect it. And we were firsthand witnesses of the destruction and utter disregard for human life, the bodies in the morgue and the streets and the front steps of the Crime Lab were evidence of it. They all hadn't died from the virus.

While it might have been suffocating in here, stuck day in and day out in the same damn place, at the same time it was comforting knowing at least I had somewhere to go, something familiar in a world that had drastically changed from the one I once knew. It might have been tempting to leave, to break free of the same four walls and escape into the great, big world, but there was no guarantee of survival out there, no food rations or provisions or protection in the form of military fatigues and M16s.

There was a part of me too, deep down inside the most unreachable part of me, that worried if I left, you wouldn't be able to find me. No phones, no internet, I didn't even have a house anymore and your apartment complex existed in a part of town that was now labeled a dangerous warzone. This Crime Lab was the last link we had left. If you managed to survive and escape quarantine, to make your way back to Las Vegas…it broke my heart to imagine you thinking I was dead or – worse – had given up on you, abandoned you.

I didn't have much to offer you anymore. As I slowly awoke from another restless night's sleep, I glanced at the four walls surrounding me, at the upside down milk crate that held my toothbrush, comb, watch. In the corner was my backpack with a couple changes of clothes. I ran my hand over the sleeping bag, imagining having to share it with you. I'd never liked to cuddle, had often pushed you away when you'd wrapped around me like an octopus in the middle of the night; it always felt like you were smothering me with the insane heat you emanated. I scoffed bitterly, shaking my head. Now, I'd give anything to feel too hot and sticky against your skin in that tiny sleeping bag.

I sighed as I roughly rubbed my jaw, my beard scratching against my palm. I supposed I should probably wash up and see if I could find something to eat, but it was getting harder and harder to get up each morning when there was fast becoming no reasons left to. I didn't work anymore, just mostly wandered aimlessly through the Crime Lab. Sometimes I'd read, sometimes I'd help out the soldiers with daily chores like laundry or preparing meals. Sometimes I'd even go through old evidence, try to piece together unsolved puzzles long forgotten. I'd even solved one cold case, much to Sara's amusement. And even though the victim's family would never know, even though the killer would never be brought to justice (even if he was still alive), the smile on Sara's face when I'd shown her my new findings – the first genuine smile I'd seen her offer in months – was worth it.

I hadn't seen her in a few days, but then again, I hadn't really made an attempt to leave this tiny room and be sociable. Finally, I dragged myself out of my so-called bed, donning a sweater before pulling on my boots. I let out a yawn that shook my frame, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to loosen up my neck and back. Sleeping in a sleeping bag on the floor of an old storage room was really wreaking havoc on my back. I placed my hand on the doorknob, slipping my other hand into my jeans' pocket, making sure to feel the familiar fold of a worn photograph before stepping outside.

I locked the door behind me, sniffing harshly against the stink of sweat and dust and stale air. At least the cooler weather meant we could open some windows and air out the place. Slowly, I made my way to the men's room, wondering if there would be any hot water today. Maybe I could even find a razor and –

Two shots resounded like a crack of lightening, startling me out of my reverie. Instinctively, I crouched down against the wall of the hallway and drew my service pistol. My heart hammered in my chest, breathing coming in short, quick bursts – the only sounds I could hear for a few seconds before another series of gunshots rang out.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

I remained still, glancing back and forth rapidly in an attempt to figure out where it had come from. The halls were empty, deafening silence ringing in my ears. I heard footsteps and turned quickly, sweeping my arms up and gripping my gun tightly as I braced myself and prepared to fire.

Two soldiers came creeping around the corner where the hallways intersected, guns drawn. I raised my hands but didn't drop my gun, instead shook my head and gave the tactical signal for shots heard. They shared a glance between each other before one nodded at me and indicated for me to continue forward, and then both of them continued down the hallway in the other direction.

I let out a deep breath and rolled my shoulders, mentally preparing myself as I continued to make my way down the hall with anticipation, unsure of what to expect as I came up on a corner. Whatever I could have imagined, it would have never been this.

She was crouched up against the wall in the hallway opposite a storage closet, her knees pulled up to her chest, hands hidden in her lap. She was covered in blood. On her face, her shirt, jacket. It was in her hair, on her mouth, then her tongue as she absently licked away stray droplets from her lips. I ran to her, sliding into a kneeling position in front of her as I holstered my gun.

"Sara," I breathed, my voice strained. One of her eyes was swollen, her cheek red and puffy; someone had slapped her – hard. Years of investigating drew my eyes right to the smaller details. Her shirt was buttoned incorrectly, two of them missing, tiny threads hanging where little clear buttons should have been. Her jeans were torn at the knee, a red scrape against pale skin peeking through the fabric. She didn't meet my eye, her expression blank, gaze fixed over my shoulder. "Sara, what happened?"

"Nothing happened," she murmured. Quickly, I looked around, but no one was within sight, and I couldn't see any immediate signs of a struggle in the hallway; nothing disturbed, no blood on the walls or floor.

"Are you hurt?" I asked, refocusing on her as I tentatively placed one hand on her uninjured knee, the other on her shoulder.

"No."

"Sara, you're covered in blood," I informed her quietly.

"I am?" she asked, her brow furrowing slightly, but she still didn't meet my eye. She raised her hands, revealing her Glock 17, held it casually as she wiped the blood from her face and neck.

"Sara," I tried again, gently easing the gun out of her hand. I placed it in the waistband of my jeans at my lower back, covering it with my shirt. I cast another glance down the hall, but we were still alone. "Sara, did you shoot someone?"

She didn't answer me, but her stare shifted slightly. I followed her gaze, turning to see the storage closet behind me. There was blood on the doorknob. I kept one eye on her and the other on the door as I stood slowly. Hesitantly, I placed my hand on the knob, gripping it tightly as I withdrew my gun from its holster once more. One deep breath and I opened the door quickly, raising my weapon while simultaneously bursting into the room.

I slipped immediately, my boots squeaking as I slid on the cheap linoleum, my hand instinctively reaching out to gain some type of purchase and stay upright. Red. There was red on the floor, red that I was slipping in. Blood. God, everywhere. On the walls and the shelves and the supplies. The entire room was in disarray, supplies knocked over on shelves and onto the floor, glass shattered and the overhead light had been smashed.

The most glaring concern were the bodies of two male soldiers on the floor. I looked back at Sara with wide eyes, my heart beating between my ears, my stomach between my knees. My mouth was open but I couldn't find my voice. Finally, Sara raised her eyes to meet my gaze, and I knew.

I knew.

"Sara," I gasped, pulling the door closed. For a moment I just stood there, watching her watch me, my head spinning so fast I actually felt dizzy, nauseous, sick. I didn't understand. I couldn't understand. This wasn't…this wasn't….this wasn't supposed to happen. Sure, there had been theft and vandalism, and someone had broken into the food rations once or twice, but there had never been…_this_. There wasn't supposed to be this. Things like this weren't supposed to happen in here. This was a safe place, the only sanctuary we had left. Out there was where…was where…

_"Nick." _Whispered so quietly, I could've almost believed it was your voice. I blinked, snapping out of my reverie and springing into action. Quickly, I holstered my gun and reached down, pulling Sara to her feet. I removed her jacket and handed her mine. She pulled it on slowly, moving stiffly, and I felt my chest tightening. I wiped the blood from her face with her jacket, smearing it more than effectively removing it. She winced as I hastily rubbed at her skin but I didn't have time to be gentle. I tossed her jacket to the floor and grabbed her arm roughly, tightly. She made no attempt to pull away.

"Come on," I ordered. I maneuvered past soldiers and employees and volunteers, beyond the lost and the hopeless and the helpless, keeping Sara close by my side as we made our way to the parking garage. I kept my eyes peeled for immediate danger, but I could see it everywhere now that I was looking for it. It was right there, right in their eyes, on their faces – the hunger, the desperation, the potential. I wondered if they could see it on mine.

Once I had Sara buckled into the SUV, I came around to the driver's side and climbed inside. I slipped the key into the ignition, my fingers ready to turn the engine over, but for a moment I just sat there breathing hard, willing my heart to stop pounding.

I could see Sara out of the corner of my eye draped over the seat listlessly like a wet rag. It hurt too much to look at her. How I could've been so stupid, so naïve to ever let her out of my sight, especially after what had happened to you, was beyond me. But it was a mistake I wasn't going to make again.

I took a shaky breath, starting the truck and backing out of the parking space.

"Where are we going?" Sara asked, as I shifted into drive.

"Does it matter?"

She shook her head. "No."

And Sara and I left the Crime Lab for the last time.

* * *

You were born in a small, affluent town in Minnesota, and I wasn't entirely sure of the circumstances, but your grandfather had decided to leave due to of some kind of falling out with one of his brothers. So he left his entire family with your grandmother and relocated to the west coast. Your mother and father stayed behind, but only for a short while. Jan – your dad – couldn't stand to see his wife Annie so heartbroken without her beloved father, so he quit his job and scooped you both up, and that was how your family ended up in San Gabriel, California.

The house you grew up in – the same one your mother, father, and grandparents still resided in –was built by your Papa Olaf when you were just an infant. He drew up the plans with an architect and built your mother her dream home, which included a small detached apartment for him and Nana. It also included several bedrooms for the three siblings you were supposed to have, but the house would never be filled with the smiling faces of your brothers and sisters after your mother lost her ability to bear children following your birth.

It stood before Sara and me, appearing as empty as the rest of the houses in this neighborhood, in this town, this world. Windows had been boarded up with plywood from the inside, broken glass and debris littering the front porch and yard. Your childhood home, quietly decaying behind overgrown landscaping that hadn't been tended to in what looked like months, the once bright blue façade dull and faded on this dreary November day.

We both tensed as quick movement caught our eye, our hands hovering over our service pistols, but it was only a couple of deer sprinting across the street. More and more wild animals had been leaving the forests and heading into the abandoned towns and cities, and it was no longer out of the ordinary to spot them in the open.

"We shouldn't stay out in the street," Sara stated, her eyes nervously scanning the surrounding area. She wrapped my jacket tighter around herself, shifting from foot to foot in the chilly evening air.

"Yeah," I agreed, even though I wasn't entirely sure I was prepared to face whatever was inside. But you and I had planned to check on your family before you were taken away from me, and I wasn't going to go back on my promise just because you were gone, even if I was a few months late.

I cleared my throat, then swallowed hard as I approached the front door. The knob was broken, the frame splintered with newer wood nailed over it as if it had been repaired after someone had kicked it in. I tried turning the knob anyway, but it was bent and dented in and wouldn't budge. I didn't want to break it down and destroy what was left of your childhood home, and I wasn't sure how it had been secured from the inside. If it was boarded up or nailed shut, I could hurt myself trying to get in.

"Come on," I said, indicating for Sara to follow me. I led her to a window on the side of the house, wiping away dirt and grime from the glass with my shirtsleeve and peering inside. I saw the familiar full-sized bed, posters of punk bands and near pornographic photographs of Madonna and Sharon Stone taped to the walls, assuring me I was in the right place. I reached within the bushes beneath the window, rustling around rocks and dirt and dead leaves.

"What are you doing?" Sara asked, her brow furrowed. Her gaze kept shifting between me and our surroundings, continuing to keep a watchful eye over us.

"Greg used to sneak out of the house at night when he was a teenager," I told her. "He rigged the latch on the window to slide shut as soon as it closed, but he also rigged it to slide open. I just…need…to find…aha!"

I pulled the rusty old metal ruler out from the brush, slipping it between the window and the frame, grunting as I twisted and pushed to find the right angle to slide the latch open.

"He showed me how he did it," I continued. "Came in handy when we snuck out with his dad to get drunk on Christmas Eve three years ago."

Sara frowned, her expression displaying her puzzlement. "Three years ago? Why would three grown men have to sneak out of a house?"

"That was the year Greg's mom found Jesus and no one was allowed to drink anymore, including Jan, Greg's dad," I informed her. She pulled her gaze away from scanning our surroundings to cock an eyebrow at me. I grinned crookedly, shrugging. "It only lasted until she missed the buzz wine gave her when she took it with her Xanax."

Sara rolled her eyes. "I see."

"Got it!" I exclaimed triumphantly as I finally felt the latch unlock. I pushed up on the frame, the wood protesting noisily from disuse as I slid the window open. Tentatively, I peeked my head inside. The room was empty, and I listened for a few moments but could only hear silence beyond the open bedroom door. I glanced back at Sara. "Do you want to wait out here while I check the place out?"

She offered me a withering stare.

"I can handle it," she stated, pushing past me and hoisting herself up into the house. I sighed, recalling the many times we'd gone in together to clear a scene, how I'd always trusted her to have my back and never worried that she couldn't take care of herself. I trusted her still, but now, after what had happened at the Crime Lab, my stomach twisted at the thought of leaving her alone.

I followed her inside, leaving the window open in case we had to make a quick escape. Sara was at your old wooden desk examining a photograph in a battered frame. Her hard expression softened at the sight of you with your best friend in high school, a boy named David that you had loved deeper than a brother. Your gangly arm was slung over his shoulder, your body flush to his side, head leaning on his shoulder. Mischievous eyes peeked over a pair of wayfarers, a bright smile with just a hint of self-deprecation aimed right at the camera, and even at the age of fifteen you managed to make that messy, straight-out-of-bed look that took painstaking time to achieve seem so effortless.

She put the photograph down, delicate fingertips tracing over words and patterns and memories that had been etched into the desk long ago by once anxious hands. I wondered if she was imagining you as you appeared in that picture, sitting at this desk and pausing in your schoolwork to carve fleeting thoughts into wood.

I peered over her shoulder as her touch trailed down a line of initials. _GS + __DV __AS __JD __RM __CB __AT__ + NS._ All crossed out except for the first and last pair. She smiled knowingly as she found the last pair of initials, her gaze meeting mine. My chest tightened, _ached_, and I had to blink away the sudden stinging in my eyes.

Her gaze shifted to behind me, her eyes widening in fear. I startled at the sound of a rifle cocking, my entire body tensing.

"Do not move," a gruff and booming voice commanded over the pounding of my heart. "I am an excellent shot and will not hesitate to prove it."

I felt a smile tugging at my lips. Sara blinked with surprise at my reaction, her eyes bouncing between myself and the man behind me, confusion marring her expression.

"I'm sure you would be…" I retorted. "If you weren't as blind as a bat."

There was a pause. "Nick?"

"Olaf," I breathed with relief, turning to face the old man. His bright blue eyes sparkled even through his severe cataracts, his smile warm and inviting. He reached for me with his free hand, the other still holding his rifle at his side, and I slipped my fingers into his palm without hesitation. He pulled me bodily into a fierce hug, his grip much stronger than one would think to look at him, and I relished in the familiar and comforting embrace. "We didn't mean to scare you."

He pulled back suddenly, looking over my shoulder in Sara's general direction, unseeing eyes searching hopefully. "Hojem?"

I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but I couldn't seem to find my voice. Couldn't seem to find the words, to break his heart, to tell him I'd so carelessly lost his only grandson. I only managed to shake my head, clenching my jaw, trapping the words in my mouth.

"No," I finally choked out, before clearing my throat and regaining my composure. I watched as Olaf's face fell, his shoulders slumping, and he sighed deeply as his bright eyes glittered with tears. "No, he's not…Greg's not here."

"Is he…?" Olaf asked, his voice breaking and he was unable continue.

"No," I quickly responded. "He was taken."

"Quarantine." The old man spat out the word as if it was the vilest cussword, making his feelings on the controversial practice obvious. Quickly, he recovered, turning towards what must've been Sara's shadowy form in his cloudy vision. "Tell me, who did you bring me the pleasure of meeting?"

"You remember hearing about Sara, Papa Olaf, Greg's – "

"Miss Sidle," Olaf said, hastily pushing me aside in his excitement. He smiled broadly, reaching for her and she swiftly moved forward to meet him. She gasped with surprise as he pulled her into a tight hug, the large man nearly enveloping her entire body in his embrace.

"It's…nice to meet you," she stammered uncertainly, as she awkwardly brought her arms around the old man.

"Let me get a good look at you," he insisted, placing his hands on her shoulders as he took a step back to study her. He brought one hand to the top of her head, trailing his hand down her hair to the side of her face, cupped her cheek and brushed a thumb gently across her skin. "My grandson, you are all he talks about when he isn't talking about Nick. You are just as beautiful as he described."

"I thought you couldn't see me," she blurted.

"My dear," he admonished softly, pulling her into another embrace. "One does not need to see to appreciate beauty. And you are the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time."

Her lips formed a tight line, her chin quavering as she struggled to maintain her composure. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around him, clutching his sweater tightly in her fists. Finally, she managed a smile, nodding into his neck, and I wondered if his words helped to soothe something deep inside of her, something those soldiers had tried to take from her.

"I see where Greg gets his charm," she murmured, sniffling and wiping her nose on her – my – jacket sleeve.

"You can also safely assume it is the same place he got his good looks," Olaf commented, mischief in his eyes. He turned towards the door, indicating for us to follow. "Come, come. I'm sure you're both hungry. Let's get you something to eat, I have some leftover chili. You can clean up while I heat it up."

"Is it vegetarian?" Sara asked, and I gaped at her rudeness. She shrugged at me, appearing sheepish. "What? Just asking."

Olaf's laugh was loud and hearty, the best sound I'd heard in a long time. "You would never make it in Norway, my dear."

* * *

Olaf graciously allowed us to shower, and thanks to natural gas, he still had hot water. I hadn't taken a hot shower in God knew how long, and maybe I spent longer in there than I should have, but the hot water running down my back, soothing my aching muscles, clearing my spinning head, felt so damn good I couldn't help but steal a few extra minutes.

Sara must have had the same notion. Twenty minutes later, damp hair resting in natural curls on her head, she joined me at the kitchen table eating a three-bean chili that was as delicious as it was animal free. Luckily for her, there was quite a shortage of packaged meat considering grocery stores and butchers no longer existed. The only steady food supplies now were located inside of military safe zones, and obviously to live in one of those was not an option anymore.

We were both wearing clothes borrowed from Greg's parents' closets. Olaf was washing mine in the sink, but Sara had carried hers downstairs after her shower and stuffed them right into the kitchen trash. Including my jacket, but I wasn't sure I would be able to wear it again without my skin crawling. Olaf didn't comment, only eyed the trash briefly before continuing about his business.

It was quiet in the house. Unnervingly quiet, but none of us were offering up much in terms of conversation. Olaf didn't ask about Greg. I didn't ask about Nana or Jan or Annie. I guess in the end it didn't really matter where they were, just that they weren't here.

"Do you have plans?" Olaf asked suddenly, wringing my shirt out of the soapy water. He hung it up on a makeshift clothesline hanging across the doorway to the dining room, then wiped his hands on his jeans before looking at us expectantly.

The question took me by surprise. I hadn't thought further than making it here. I shrugged, struggling to answer. I swallowed hard. "No. No, we don't have any plans."

"Then you will stay here," Olaf stated, smiling reassuringly. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped at his eyes. "Stay a while, okay? At least until Greg gets here."

I swallowed hard, my eyes burning at how casually he said those words, as if it were as good as fact. Grass was green and the sky was blue and you would arrive as soon as you could. I regarded Sara, who was frowning into her chili as she stirred it with her spoon. The metal of her spoon began clattering against the ceramic bowl, her trembling fingers quickly releasing it.

I reached across the table and took her hand, squeezing her slender fingers comfortingly. She looked up at me from beneath dark eyelashes, still frowning, and I could see the distress in her eyes, the sadness, the shame – shame I felt too, knowing Papa Olaf believed his grandson could return while the idea that you were gone forever had crept slowly into my heart and somehow secretly cemented itself into my soul over these past few months.

Finally, I nodded, my voice thick as I spoke. "Yeah, of course we'll stay. We wouldn't want to miss Greg."

"Good, good," Olaf agreed, smiling with obvious relief. "He would hate to be left behind."

I wondered how you would feel knowing you already had been.

* * *

To be continued...


End file.
